The streets are my body

or rather the wish

of the skin to put on

the grass in a gold rain


not vice-versa,

the lips twisting to allow

the tongue to play in 

the broken mirror on the floor

Catches an arm

a distance

                 the light

at the ceiling

                    This kills

the lift begged

of a magical hand


I have walked a long way

traced in these pieces

an arm

a crotch     The queen

of faerie guarded

by blue-winged griffins


Untouched by

By Robin Blaser

Photography by Cristina Coral