Washed-Out

Slashing the surging monarchy
of celibates
stoking the fire of wounds,

the turret locks on to a target
taking off the gloves.
The mountain was rising.

A sheet of the floating ice
disturbs the ecology of heart.
I place my candle in the storm.

The missiles had failed.
Only the words were flying from
bare lips for entreaties.

Oversexed like a shoe-flower
O, mad enemy
I am pouring out the red sea.