Her face is painted on and
the acrylic is just the foundation.
Her rouge is war paint, broadcasting
an atmosphere of asphyxiation.
She is the astronomer’s reference point
between the earth and the sun.
She spins, and clouds cover thought
Her forests are hidden by the strung up
laundry lines of scientists’ fires.
Clothespins clip the tips of trees, smoking.
Not every forest’s trees are trees.
Not all ideas have seeds.
To illuminate but live in a shroud—
a beacon to wanderers, but a mindless
mannequin to an educated crowd.
Is that what the codfish sings of?