Starlings are flying above the wheat fields,
nesting in the sunset bound Cassiopeia tent
of yore – she listens to jazz and masturbates
while the French films play, recognizes speech
in texture rather than pattern. Thinks love
is lust, really a captivating veil that blinds you
to sensation.

Her tongue is forked
her body is a passé obsession,
she'll let herself go
like the starlings flying over the wheat fields.