i. what is

this is what is:

nights inbetween the dimblue and
days bruising them with other colors.

she;
pain
ting.

canvases and walls
speak new languages,
reinterpret ancient prints.
modern caves grow around
velvetpanthers on golden backgrounds,
wolfmanerotica on unwashed skin.
their hairs like roughblack silk against flesh, against paper
and her eyes closing around their movements
over floors, through rivers, across mountains.

this summer exchanges words for images,
late nights for early mornings.
poetry hangs reluctant
to fall from fingers
soil the book.
lines come and go
comeandgo, rip
away with the mouths opencloseopen.
strange and violent they have
become strange and violent.

she
blames it on the hunger,
stops the words in thought and goes for the soap.
white and foam will wash them clean, she thinks,
from the iron forming on her tongue.