We orbit in time
to the feverish scene
at the edge of poetry.
Our counterpart’s satirical mooning
of the viceroy straps the bread-burden
to our current tarry despair.
Now her immense love
is in shards,
impaled on a pale blue bottle
of false names.
— Mh, Sept. 2011
MonkeyMoonMachine 
Excellent imagery and sound!
good poem very nice to read from kevin