For Gustave Moreau

The streets are my body or rather the wish of the skin to put on the grass in a gold rain not vice-versa, the lips twisting to allow the tongue to play in the broken mirror on the floor Catches an arm a distance the light at the ceiling This kills the lift begged of a magical hand I have walked a long way traced in these pieces an arm a crotch     The queen of faerie guarded by blue-winged griffins Untouched by