The Lady's Mirror And The Man Who Carried It Poem by Luke J. Holt

'the mountain is immovable '
says the moist queen
she has given so many coins
and they are heavy to her
whinnying like a stifled beast against the snares of pink hands
sexy with grit and gold
awash with garish neon blue like air
until my feet become boats of hammer-like bone that chase the seasons from the wind
i have spared this plate for you now for the passing of two hundred moons
and the puppets are famished
washing their limp pegs of cedar to dine with tears on your plenty
i have found my friends in the vibrant scarcity of night
it is a thrill to parch with you in this dance of towers
in carmine waves of pillowed heat we stir
without the helmets of white or the papers which read our names
transparent