I was thinking of a clock
not a daughter,
she ticks in the womb
I`m infatuated with my
would- be death
in menstrual motion
dripping and erratic
with the soles of a Slavic`s shoe
who would dare be more determined?
Yeh all great poets have brown hair,
color is a defiance, but no more than a canine`s brain can shelter
all grown up,
when that young woman`s
give me fever, I see his eyes still set on crinkled petals.