Zoo-girl, your den is empty.
You have some kind of blister-condition.
Havoc and lust and long bodies. Mouths talk, teeth glisten.
Your long-winded letters are hot sobs
And ink-screams. You didn't mean to mail out
Your collection of metaphors.
Terror sucks the grapes
Of cold dictator-nations.
Days later come the lily-girls to tea.
They bring their china-smiles, their
Pale personalities. Some even bring their clean white
Children. One by one you crack their shallow
Cups. And then each chair is empty.
Air is your only friend.