A steampunk Rolls Royce
floats on a yashmak of virga;

it’s a sporty castle in a closet
with ceilings as high as
god’s sole’s;

from the outside, this vehicle
of meaning is a flying chariot,
like Howl’s moving
chateaux.

Virginal Virgil is vvriting
under a canopy of orchid
colored thighs.

In the balmy
garden of heresies
time is like a groundwater
sundial: underneath you but
it moves with the gravitational
force of shadows.

Here, the gilded virgin Mary
studies the lusty zoosemiotics
of feral humans through a tiny microscope.

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