Antikythera

for m

Kneeled against great cities
you ask who shot JR

I move a poem made of clay
to the other side

a cup of capitals can not go far
therefore my chest is a lion

its roar in a singing voice
its gears clearly visible

my mane on the lighthouse
many times I made love

to your fragile beauty
the flesh of your thighs alarming

now it is the simple things I touch
and the old questions you ask