Fat thunderclouds roll across clouded visions of a breast I once held dear.
where are you now woman?
Old skin wrinkles my mind.
Sitting in the dirt of Mother Earth next to her serpent
I worship the almighty sun, giver of life.
Take the time for sunrises and sunsets
the peaceful wind gently whispering melancholy.
I see hope in the empty spaces.
The poetry of the dead screams to be heard
high above the blinking lights
of routine madness
The serpent bites, and I close my eyes to the bloody truth of Frank O’Hara.