see this: a girl draped over her table
with moths and green vines all thick and
hot inside her, their lisping mouths poking
up through her fingernails, their strong
buds opening between her legs; she is
tightening and turning softly in the chair,
softlysoftlysoftlysoftly
so that the library people do not hear the
rustling of her soul and instead
think it is only books turning,
the pages all green with unspent sex.
the last pavilion 