Beloved,

She wriggles of life.
Wrapped in a palm, 
pale like gypsum's
flakes of ivory.
She wriggles of life,
carved in the harsh erotics and
pews whose albumens of flesh
awe back her prescence....

Belonging,
on her first day 
belonging,
her mouth was yours,
her lips, 
statutes of a testatment
of a tribe gone mad.

Beloved,
bring me your visions
your allusion on mule,
your fires' brightest Channels
(Meshach, Shadrach, Abdenago)
your psychic, high on
wooden monocles 
whose talk of 
animal theism, desert terror, phantasm,
are veins in the cataclysms of her palm.
This world is 
enough 
my love, 
tell the believers
your daughter has name.