Her arms catch the floating sleeves of her blouse
as the claws hammer down, the dense chimes
of damn, damn longing springing outward like flying lizards
in some jungle nightmare.
Jungles are chaos, you know, in a Jungian way
as snakes are a symbol of sexual danger.
Not that these people would know. Fuck, some women here
wear bonnets. Ache sucks you dry like that
until you no longer dream of snakes or feel music in your gut.
Maybe you will wear a stupid hat so there will be no lustful implication.
Monkeys sprint through their pens off to our left, the cacophony of music
making their stomachs tighten.
I wonder where she is tonight, you know,
the woman that I love. So when the player bangs with fervor,
I clap with the throng, my tense hands pushed together a little too hard,
and bear witness to those hammers as they pound, pound, pound.