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It’s hard not to love
the bad boys, the blood-bathed
throwers of tantrums
who fill the rum skies
with crows and newborn angels.
What are metaphors
for besides the mad
ache to cover up? They live
for a reason: bang-
plowed ecstasy, wide
open fields of what’s left
when the dogs are through.
Shiva me tender,
lover. Behind the livid
trees, Loki beguiles
in the body of a mare
because boys will be.
Coyote steals fire
and, hey, it’s a little piece
of the gods’ only
sun, and he won’t be
gone long. It’s about the bright
deaths of art and coy
virgins; it’s the spring,
and that’s the dance. Cities
made of screaming and
the end of days. We
raise our hands for mercy. We
raise our hands in praise.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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