Old Bole

Old bole,
I see through
your disguise,

you are a pedestal
in real life,
upturned bowl,

on which
the behind
of the earth
sits, wiggles

your unseen parts
reaching deep
into her flesh

bright flashes
of lightening
ground themselves

anything wet,
juices flowing
catch a spark.

Far above,
your old withered fingers
grow new green nails

clutch the bedding
of the sky
and hang on.

Available works in the 'Edna Series'

Millenniums's Are Made…
In My Own Backyard
Old Bole

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