The
picture you hold in some
Far corner
of a fiefdom not yet
Reached
(a place where
Sinuosity
stalks with the grace
Of your
outstretched calf and
Strikes
with the repeated
Forked
breath of beseeching
Lightning)
questions the arts
Of power
as conquest; the snarl
As touch-me-not,
the litheness
As invitation
to admire come
To naught
at the corners of your
Lips,
where the clear desire is all
To be
encased in another skin,
Holding
taut to yourself as one
With
the imagined rider, catamount
To every
undestroyed dream.