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when monks doodle

she reveals her scarlet layer, but not too deep in reach

a few fingers

daintily draping

spring’s horizon lines above

small animal claws

rendered and revealed

in exactitude

under treated fur,

like a teething greyscale moth in snowy death


thirteen potential fists, while only one realizes worth;

a dozen restricted variations

dance frigidly above his head

((iconoclasm forgot the mudras;

if only godliness were on your margins))


blind to his remonstrations,

his bored wooden demeanor

once encased a pliable spirit

now teased forward

                                                 gingerly glued to words

                                                                  on guessable colored tongue

                                                                              waiting for an almost ancient’s strain

                                                 released, through the poetic



—but we press you to the soft glass,

we keep you on our black backs


                                                 as she stuffs him to her nostrils, ears:


    eternally his haunt