Innards indecision twists
     wither from within; it’s
     winter, so conviction hits
     in her window when, without,
     winds are off thundering—
     snow for illustration sits
     plentiful, colouring thick
     her stomach’s pit with pale;
     pictured to depict her ill.

Perfect for pity is her
     midriff bared; beneath tears
     a devil’s pen clawing forth
     paper-white prayers to ink
     into her there, saying,
     This is the maiden fair; this
     is the way in; tear its skin—
     (scratching to sniff her hair,)
     dig; dig in; dine on its skin—

Dialogue demanding her
     devouring, she presses
     lips shut, her hand lowering
     to her ridge; a devil’s claw
     entering its depth dips
     its pen, emerging bleeding—
     if on a winter’s night some
     traveler drowns, women
     call to him to come again.

Blurred visions bubble up where
     interruption of their
     performance makes into porn
     what incisions morning’s torn;
     veils of dreaming threadbare
     and unseeming unravel
     to reveal a woman’s all
     bone and batting; cotton-
     stuffed mouths of desire asking…