Mother moon, father sun!
I am not black, nor have I ever sinned.
Might reap your piss ants thus: one and one
is three, gone tight over your heads now.
Sing again your fraught baggies, candy corn,
this is the reign of the over and out.
Lost in cipher mists, two horns, a gussy glow,
an open heart for sowing—that is to say,
muse is what? Ain Soph Aur, or Ur corroded.
My Arethusa yet outmoded, modeled of water.
