By Rory A.A. Hinton
Jack-In-The-Pulpit No. IV
Ghost Ranch revisited under ancient constellations:
Old New Mexican lovers extend their feminine invitations
To signal out, in Totto, the smoking visceral Strand.
Inhaling the immanent cuts, and the slowly vanishing butts,
Within the fingers of their clean and curious hands.
Oblivious to the subject of their conversation:
Early departure and late debilitation
Prevent their old men from entering their cryptic "Amen".
The girls stop crying, as the women start trying,
To pull their way into this Parfum de femme.
The end of their beginning starts with a kiss:
Sitting in naked nobility, bowing in deviant bliss
As both lips sing inhuman effectual verse.
For those who wait, and who despise being late,
Belong the write to mythologize this compact universe.
Metaphor is the dreamwork of their language:
Working out her nightmare, yet lying back so languid
She briefly opens her eyes and assures her with a smile.
With her black eyes closed, and her tenderness exposed,
She watches over her eye-lined Nefertiti of the Nile.
Their sweet anatomy gone, but their ghostly scent remains:
Totto and Strand must bury this dead man's remains
As he enters their memories while paying his forfeit.
Haunted by a vision, never subject to revision,
For one brief definitive moment: pulpit.