For Gustave Moreau Poem by Robin Blaser

The streets are my body
or rather the wish
of the skin to put on
the grass in a gold rain

not vice-versa,
the lips twisting to allow
the tongue to play in
the broken mirror on the floor
Catches an arm
a distance
the light
at the ceiling
This kills
the lift begged
of a magical hand

I have walked a long way
traced in these pieces
an arm
a crotch The queen
of faerie guarded
by blue-winged griffins

Untouched by