Slipping with Female Surrealists

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Slip off your clothes. Just linger in a lunar
courtyard. An invitation to skin dip without a plunge.
Or cover your eyes. Fade into nocturnal oblivion

in Mexico as visceral tissue separates us
from Leonora’s dead. Once mad, her reality
in an asylum. She paints a cappella, a ghost's wail.

Likelihood principle: faintest Northern Lights reels
not a hallucination. Not captured on camera.
A presence moves like her white horse. Pulsating Earth

battle happens on the clear side of a mist otherworldly.
On the other side of a heathered mountain, a giant leaf
speaks. Clouds allow a sliver of blue to inferno through.

In an age where atrocities pass in real time. Overhead
roar of a jet fighter plane, inhospitable spaces
bird-headed while short-reel F-16 repels an attack.

Language is more than a trick to mimic its rise
& fall of pitch. You may intonate, catch golden eggs
in nonverbal gardens, but can you formulate a sentence?

Wyndham Lewis said Michelangelo was his bête noire.
Carrington’s spectral beings gather to sing,
their attrition chiseled marks are left in place.

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