p r o x y
: m a r i a p a c e
Your visionary seized midget entrails out of the sky
Told and worn, oiled organs drip leisurely
Like sap from the pores of a tree trunk
Scorn and fold, your prophet squirrels them away
in his chipmunk pouch
The gamey aroma lingers over our game.
My token is shaped in soft iron bars,
Self-taught to raid each conceited square
on the painted plank.
My ant-farm has an aphid-farm --
Simon says the dreamiest butter
is churned from insect milk
Your man, the truth-seer, smiles,
Licks the butter from his bruised lips
I count to ten and the surrogate sage
hides his beard in a mosaic of gyrating
gypsy-moth caterpillar halves.
You concede, and your prophet pawns a pout.
Sold and born, the folds of his dithering robes
Incite passion and poison in the grass below
Humming a Nep-tune for the neap tide,
He marches back to his box.