city and the sex

and yet beneath this womb
she can breathe smoke at last
a circle of steaming blood

more reason for riding tall
in short skirted manifestos

instead we count sheepskin pleats
and trot into her, blithe hems

you dig, feel beyond germaine skin
throw boot on tactile shovels

and history spoils our graves
to seek mastheads with tongues
like emma goldman

doodling at the fringes
with hatchets and axes
to bury and grind
in this lingerie cyclone

this month
another frilly tome
next
another shaved narrative

for him