White-Binder Poems  

Oh, what is the beast?
They say they hate the beast but I doubt it.

The beast goes on through solid rock
and down rivers of rusting hearts.
It is the dragonfly on a rose bush.
A row of open windows along the most obscure
   town hidden under the old werke factory

It is not ancient, not medieval.
It is an unrestrained thing;
a fantasy out of the mind of a drug addicted
  heiress;
children unloosening their power for the first time.