Like a meteorite streaking
through the sky, iron
and nickel, for a proxy collision
with hidden destiny.

It was the post trauma
syndrome, after the great
divide of breast, lifting
the nipples.

The lofty peak crumbles.
There will be the scare
around, to grow the poppies
on the mounds again.

Are you ready now
for emasculation? The
legacy will, on its own, pass
onto alternative sins.