La dolor exquisite

I am the spirit of the inward

The fever that lives in bones and Tarot cards,

 what is picked Up and thrown down.

The scent of desire and decay.

 I am The new that is ancient,

The hope that hurts,

The budding and the weaving and the stunned bird who falls

You long for me lengthwise

My gleaming ribs a corset to harness

The pleasure and the plenty.

Mine is the double vision

That everything is sacred, and trivial,

the dice won’t tell you anything

you don’t already know.

I am the laughter that bubbles in hot blood,

(Dolor supervivo caro//Dolor sublimus caro//Dolor ignio animus)

And I love the silver spider

Trapping males in my window.

I let her cross over my chest because

I know we are the same.

Mine is the crone wisdom that whispers

You are everything to me,

 you are nothing.