COLD FRONT

Dance, the crush! Like a wind of navels, its womb kept quiet, as if
swallowed! And fingered at the source bitter, tight. Criminals,
crowned by much weight, wrap their weapons and poems in skin and graze
the streets brightly like queens. For the moon is empty, here, as an
eyeball, playing with its freshly streaming colors. Stupid, and of
"impious sweetness to the lip". Run, oh run! Your flaming divining
tongues for the sake of orphaned suns and their wailing and raining on
fantastically pale foreheads. Oh, pure blue of a footprint, have
you wasted the dance? And, with your demonizing guitar, strummed afar?
Do you pretend that I have, fingers?