On The Pale Criminal

It is smooth
& bone white as that gull
against the darkening thunderheads,
or creamy as Nefertiti's inner thighs,
or agony peach,
or off white as the belly of a toad
turned over on his back
by a boy playing God…

Cold phosphorous pebbles
of gypsum stone
gleam in the dark humus
beneath the old blood
of the night roses…

It shines
as the fresh complexion
of the moon…

It is crystalline
as those glittering ceilings
the Okies blow onto sheetrock…
Pearly as tapioca beads,
empty as an eggshell
amphora in the shadowed corner
of a tomb
where the princess Ananka waits
sleeping,
wound in the mummy cloth…

It is a field of dark blue snow
or roseate as frosted milk
glass holding wine.
It is heavy light.

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