A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.
The tiny decay in the apparatus
of language pierces
all sister tongues
with drowsing needles of black rain.
Symphonies of liquid porcelain,
sad blue eternities,
white chrysanthemum dynasties,
sink into the marrow
of our bones.
A blacker poetry sleeps
in the bellies of women.
The feral daughter cleans her soft knife
in fresh milk and smoke.
There is danger of electric shock.
Do not kiss