To: Your Hot Daughter

Your breasts will break off your chest

like stone sagging Egyptian mason’s baskets

Dipping beside regal edifices, profiles

of fleshy ghosts that too hear mother earth’s

cackle home.

Your blonde waves that crest in moontides

will bury deep into the dusty sea green shores

of your casket, but first eyes and a tongue

and ears and your heart will hesitantly draw

angels in the sand.

None of it will matter, and neither

will you.

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