In exile poetry class with André Breton,
Conspiring ice picks behind the teacher’s eyes.
Await the lightning strike to ostracize
Or demonize while feeling put upon.
The categorical imperative drones on
And on, releases spans of tentative whys.
So though a lover can only sympathize
Denatured life seems so sickly and wan.
Her thighs like goosedown plains of promise reel
Below the hemline of dream and cheekbone’s fire
While peasants’ flowers braid themselves above
Exploding skies where open secrets feel
The sweaty pulse of Satan’s stolen lyre
And even braindead drones can talk of love.