Dear Cut/Throat,

A.

In your mind
you jump
from an unmoving roar
mostly silent
beyond the hill
the sharp light of stars
winding through
and out a distant bombing.

B.

In the damp night
by the laboratory
carved by the pulse
of your counterfeit sex
your entrails
rock like a baby carriage
layered and beaten
as an unchanging mountain.

C.

In the first act
the burden of all
outward forms must break
through.  The broken hinge
completes the picture
which has already been celebrated:
Icarus drowning bare-assed
everything in motion.

D.

In my world you contract to
a recognizable image this
climate a missed
syllable miraculously fixed
on a sensitive young boy
the modern poetic
thinking of Venus dead on
the lawn by a magenta flower.