Climbing up her skirt
Comes a rather pompuos symphony
Dressed like an insect
From the 19th century
An eclosion of all histories
And this ruined choir sings:
We turned your father to a walnut
Buried riches/building bridges in/over his spine
Made of glass and made of fear
It had to break after some time
Her skirt now is a whisper
And see what then reveals:
Clinging to her non-words are
Ultrasounds of stiff love
What she heard
Repeating herself
Like a rose
She turned into her song
Repeating itself
Like a song:
"My peel is a swarm
My spine is a tree
There rages a rough spring
About summer i sing
To the cocoon of thee"