Like Voodoo: The Dance Is Esoteric

she hides from herself
the pain is like eating thorns.
so blue, so bold, the chair is aflame.
the awning is Africa, the syntax
is
Europe:
almond eyes, spirit tinges, cringing
the great minimalization.
Africa is killing Africa;
language is a cedarchest;
Mexico is an heirloom.

she hides in dungeons; she loves as disputed:
the poet needs the parasol—the flame,
features going mild, women looking
like ink.     

the greats are singed, severed, exalted.
syllabic Russian beaut. Jerusalem
with fire, Europe is Danish. never
with respect, as not to see a woman;
never with disrespect, as not to see
a
woman.

the comma, so intimate, the pain,
glorious—looking at one, seeing
thrice—courting each personality.

the poet can’t love, she tries, she dies;
the scribbler is assaulted by Africa;
the musician is traveling Italy;
the ventriloquist, fretting the dungeon.

too much the losing of time—the pain
in arms, the fright in dying; it’s
coming
it’s rapacious,
mothers are waiting—to leap into
razors, a foolish clown, a soul trying
to escape the beauty.