Under the red threat of a sword,
undoing her hair,
which guides kisses and shows the spot where kisses rest,
she is laughing.
On her shoulder,
ennui has dozed off.
Ennui can only be itself with her,
the rash one,
who laughs madly as day's end
dispersing red suns beneath bridges, blue moons,
faded flowers of a blasé bouquet.
She is like a great wagon of wheat
and her hands germinate and stick out their tongues.
The roads that she tows in her wake are her pets
and she closes their eyes with her sovereign steps.
