She is some perverted red mystic, straddling the demarcation line, the shallow dividing river of wrinkled graffiti hardened into concrete. flecked with half-exploded petals and white carbon. she stands placental and raw with having, the vagaries all exposed, a thousand mute promises bound tight in the membranes of her cells. between curled fingers of smoke at the #103 bus line she fills her strange bones with carbon. insects are water-walkers and she learns their secrets by morse spasms of wing and pixel. around the corner, inches from dead houses of godheads bearded with ivy, a sarajevo rose unfurls hard with carbon. deadly blooms on solemn cobble. with arctic eye and cigarette fire coaxed to bend, she is quietly makingbeingsayingdying. ringing with phallic carbon. she leans against a telephone booth and has all the ways of the mevlevi, basically stranded on urban battlefields among hungry saints. she recycles dead cells and wades into rivers thought too acidic to ford. rose resin rises. risen.

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Added to The Corduroy Mtn. on March the Third in the year Two Thousand and Nine.