"I don't part-ic-ul-arly feel

like being nice today" (breathlessly)

proclaimed she in her salt-spray tone

The mesmer of her dappled eyes

(animal from a sunlit cage) calls.

Little peacock!

Slinking through the forest as though

you had been made of more than

carbon (copy of an all-

too-familiar landscape)

A nation of discomfort holds council in

my leaden chest (willing

a look of awe from my face) as

She spices the air with power and

beauty, the aro(bow string still singing)

matic stench of self-sufficiency.