X
Blank, a penetration
In deep wells: a heart
Stomping with mechanical
Accuracy. Galloping as a horse
Sombre. It echoes and turns
To stare with a wanderlust
Look into the paint pot of
The opaque Atlantic.
Freakish bodily wine blending
Into bleaches. The tulips there
Aching wide-mouthed and
Conquering the sill's motherly embrace.
Somewhere far away they shadow
Continents with their
Illuminated pin-prick eyes.
To be there, above a gairish X.
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