Something Wonderful Is About to Happen to You
       

Say Fortune's a poem without blood? Nope. Hung it.
Beauty flaws out, opens through omen. Pit no I do
against itself. Moon, why out too deep? Oh, burn up
our bodies. Flow. Punish. Too on path, augment, yet
let or . . . but . . . shape the map. Soon now, you unfit god, I
won't need to sough, to blue mouth, pray of. I spin a
poor pain if owed to one, sought asylum but then
what bout of pangs honed imperiously? Tune too,
too, too us. Adieu? Nothing but my flower happens.

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Copyright © 2018 Dora Malech All rights reserved
from Stet
Princeton University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission