And The Swan

No contrast of feathers and flesh,
but a full phallic thrust of hearts and
violence.  Feel like walking in traffic.  A window seat
napping with the cat, subverting the
line.

Her rose tattoo
the thorn recommends a lighter shade of gray,

beautiful flower reaches like the anemone advances;
long-missed orphan retreats from the edges
in a feathery existence of light and
sea air.  Leaves traces pleasing to look at
of having been there.