The ragged edge of loneliness, broken
By strangers’ gossip of sex and God.
Fertilized by dust spores of desire,
Womb’s fruit waxes tender, smooth
In the fullness of the day’s empty hours.
Sing in me, O muse,
The sound of an earthworm’s progress
The sight of a mosquito’s eye jelly
The taste of an oncoming storm
The touch of a mysterious stranger.