Her Make-Up Is Not For You [to Make Sense of]

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

during recitations.


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?


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