A whore everyone has seen, a fierce meadowlark who can't fly or sing, cut my arms, legs are bruised and blooming, freshly sheared grass and a crystalline lake made of tiger glass and old cigars, my dolls are made of porcelain and talk in secret whispers, shivers and a blackfoot brain, guilty of a crime wave, a city street slippery and wet as can be, the asphalt glittering and shimmering, vibrating pains, soft, pink lips, a navel and narcotic in the veins, your hands on my wall, the thick, artsy covers a flowery battleground, a fantasy for you and damnation for me, it's funny how I see you everywhere, I pass you on the stairs, the bathtub and the park, in the blistering sun and sensuous, spring swings, an azure bathing suit and smooth caramel landscape, slow exploring, navigating and no bra, kissing, and you have sharp teeth, scratch the lark everyone has seen, delicious clothes off, phone calls and a police siren, that's the Twin and New York in the background, out of breath and panting, sparks and slumbering and slurry sleep, the sad and lusciously sweet meadowlark will call you tomorrow.