The girls you love make beautiful suicides.
Breaking off heels and losing orchid
corsages beneath the backseats of buicks.
This one speaks through the curtain
of her hair, the sweet blonde number,
soft machine of her ribs humming
like an engine block full of bees.
The dark has too much rigging. The moon
projected on a screen with tinfoil stars.
Is full of holes. Bankrupt gas stations
and the backs of women's calves.
Your flares set fire to the homecoming float.
Set fire to the gym and all its paper
carnations. All the mouths gone metallic pink,
harboring tire irons and rhinestone tiaras.