Don’t Gird the Loins, Pagan

Freud-image art critic

marks crimson my prose:

“Technique, yes, but Doesn’t

express your true thought.”

How about this binder

of childhood treasures:

beads, hair, aboriginal?

“Poetry!  Poetry! Give me

Poetry!” he rampages.

Pretend-me rolls over

into a old Rite of Spring

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Demiurge Dance: Enheduanna Sings

pure one, wisp

black winter born

whimsy and howl

no Breath

but Mine

no Touch

but Mine—

 

I read

in astonishment

I reread

in fascination

I revise

in diligence

my first Promise

my Dear reject—