A dancer in flame red
through out the emerald obsedian of forest love
Russians in filthy rag
of high flying American corporate tech company
found a rat
in a wicker basket
and were to no ends confused.
True, our split speech bespeaks the edge of that blade
that saw dancer torn open by two men,
that odd girl dressed in black filth later
worn to company picnic
and stretched out before the laundry.
Old armor cracked soft
where chivalry had spoken its last frame
of harness
in the soft mountain air
fragrant with rape.
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