Full House

The image of her body
holding wet memory
to enter the gate once again
expressing sweet nothings
explaining concussions
to jabber away...

holding in the pattern
repeating visions in matter
that terror of missing escaping

discharging chagrin
of the sickness of sin
racing to begin again

bullets jigging
little earthquake raking
a form of healing so hideous

only twice can that taste
cause the held image to stagger
in reality of twenty and four later
the magic of the words
engorging the herds

worlds away
children you say?

The dust settles with her cards on the table
and he excuses himself to secretly flush
the royal seed...

he thinks:

"She has beaten me."