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Poems by Inchiki
Pismire
you can perch on her
all you insects
that consider her tasty or divine
and she’ll not
swat you
you can rest
on her
and she’ll move
carefully
trying to not disturb
although of course
she could
grind you to paste
or flick you away
mortally injured
it is not her desire to cause you harm
it is not her will to deceive
but in unfolding
that glory box of unending song
you fear you will like her
better to renunciate than bare a period of pain
and the blackfriar's effect is moot
your Sicherheitsgurt protects the flesh only
much later
it is mostly her aroma that offends
(in this respect
she is like others of her kind
only when they are
DEAD)
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