The Venusian wilderness
Becomes the lens through
Which all other lenses are cashed.
A cloak of stars, a prison of mist
A cruel black vacancy in
The nexus of my beloved spine.
Whatever the value of goods
If love lacks, poverty will follow
If you’re not prepared to see me
Naked than don’t stand so close.
A pursuit garnished but ill-favored,
A diaphanous skirt raging
Through snags of untenable wind.
Catch me if you dare
But be ready to suffer the consequence.