from the article:
False Accounts
The black crows are hungry for rose-red meat; upon a deceitful moon I cast my reflection; they break their beaks upon it, banging them against the glass, and as I part—ironic, untouched and glorious— the black crows fly away, having grown tired of rose-red meat.
Mock love and cold, marble that tedium varnished to stony flame, or lily that blush wrapped in rose’s red, always that which belongs to, my God… fecund rosary beads living shirt collar that closes in around the world’s neck.
Chain of the earth, constellation fallen.
Oh rosary beads, magnetized by snakes glimmering to the end, between my fingers, that within your smile, fifty teeth full with a big kiss, my life was set aflame: a rose made of lips.