Pleiades, Max Ernst
are not written, but rinsed,
by the ink of earth and eternity,
gathering the daylight and parsing the night.
Observe their movement
across the ether,
as they trespass the armor of fear,
Their sexuality, coiled—and
breathless—as they remain unspoken.
Observe how they pull the light
inside their chambers.
Observe how they paint themselves
out of the shadows.
Observe how their silence cuts me.