I'm glad their rouge cream is widening
in the cokebox and their movie
is a liquid camera pupil
like ice cream upstream in a dream
about vulvas.

I'm glad their rash catalogue
is furious with the boygirl
voice of the boy with the brown bowl
haircut that mangles the place
piecemeal with his tiny teeth and his tongue.

I'm glad their shriveled roses
dilate like a fascist fantasy of ants in a fire.
I'm glad they are a Mexico
of parrots melting their crests.
I'm glad their sweet ravings
cream in the gardens of stone.