Collisions happen in the most
photogenic alleys of night,
rearing views raised from lowly toes
to traffic-stopping thighs alight.
Crescendo glares cascade in two
shattering incisions: jump-cut
from your mind two barefoot wives who
gyrate and grind shadows to soot.
Finger from their frolic some dusk;
powder through your sight its sundown
and dust from your comfort all trust,
lower your lids—hit these women
with oncoming silence. Channel
traffic, come onto it like fists;
each speeding thought races down ’til
your spinal highway’s discord-kiss
sticks out and fits between their lips.
This sliver, a silver shard rich
in tradition, reflects what girls
crashing from inhibition hurl
into one another over
and over—and under, and out—
polishing mirrors with their mouths,
sisters scissor the glass with shouts
crackling varnish-like subtlety
across the horizon of their
notes. Eating the garnish wilting
blithe before me, I do not dare
turn away or impair the scene
where chances are, that if I do,
my tangled twins will wake a dream
and break-up our trinity, too.