I was a rampant angle,
an acute stab
in her tenderest parts.
But acute is only cute
for so long - becomes obtuse,
and obtuseness
becomes baseless:
an open wedge, flung
ever wider, flipping
to horizontal, then inverted,
before my arrow
became her bow,
my shield
became her sword.
And now, she hunts me
in the night: her moon
a watchtower, her stars spears
penetrating
the darkest spaces
of my heart
with light.
And I take it like a wolf
lulled by a soft dream
of saffron and silk,
yet still ravenous for meat;
licking his wounds,
licking his lips,
whimpering for milk.
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