On this day of hearts

I take my spade

and

gut the white carcass until the
striating pulse is deflated

The swan: torn open like an unprepared
Hunting prize lays tender and bleeding
Leda-you are free
Now fly.

On this day of beautification
Garlands of roses orbit our heads
And festoon our genitalia so that the
two precious cherubs may

fornicate the way Mother always prayed
we would trapped in this shoddy oil
painting, bathed under a stream of gold
light-

She wears white
Squinting at the tentacles of topaz rays
until they
shrivel her black from the UV’s blue
buzz.

On this sacred twenty-four hour my own
wing                 span                            (grows)

Along with my leg[(s] pan)
So I can straddle the hours beneath me
and ride the center of gravity, I pepper
this yin-yang globe-

These dead flowers hermetically sealed
And preserved behind the glass in an air
kiss-free! This down from the satin
pillows! Free! These shreds of white
butterflies released from glass! Fly!

It all comes fluttering down around me;
It is all just paper anyway.