my muse, the sphinx
the ground is dotted in bullet holes
where headless birds roost. empty octaves
stretch as far as the eye can see: a
book and a lamp and a socket,
a scattering once scattered where
the clap of the horizon bit like granite.
enigma winks at the glorious sphinx.
she is my muse beside the tomb,
tanned by the sun, her warm,
lusciously clawed curves yawning; i
take her paw into my hand and clasp them,
cold like a womb. they say here
a Pharaoh-or-other once fell, or it was
Prophecy. they say, here, Rome and Romulus
shot at the headless birds… while Cleopatra
bared her breasts to the sky. but couldn’t have made a difference anyway
because of her smile.
my muse is a queen of tongues like Babel,
the majestic mother of silence. but here today,
an ashtray for the birds.
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