That curve of the tongue of the spiny anteater
engaged in a deliberate sequence of elevation
conscious decisions each fully automated
each androgynous circumstance
a little death in silence
all turned inside

exotic crisp light intrudes
the morning hurts in the back of the head
if light itself were the blade
it’s illumination effected mayhem

the moon and its memory of fading away
is now growing strong
its light over the valley
as she dances in the trees
her life erasing details
in the sand under the sweep of her
missing foot