A blade in the bed of a child will slice up nightmare into simpler hungers. But a knife is a dangerous gift girl brave enough to be crazy you may never read this poem again so commit it like sin or a promise to the place where poetry arms your beauty with a hundred knives some mined in the hills above Whydah for a good looking Creek on the run. The rhythms of your long body do not yet move in my blood but the first full moon of this year is a void of course moon I dream I am precious rock touching the edge of you that needs the moon’s loving.
