Lucy's Shores in a Bottle

A gorge to the left of her
anvils Lucy to Dada
tumbling flowers
out between her blooming knees
drives south
an owl
on August 3rd

Her Cubism’s
twelve post-Jungian
tomato vines
pump her brake lights
up like red balloons
finger fucked in
solid Potsdam

It's like a dream of Lucy
(in one luggage
clandestine as parasols)
in which Lucy
never masturbates
or has sex

It's like sex'll remind her
(the apple a day
that up & fruits it)
she's not in love
except with words