To a 18 year old Purdue Diner--Girl

If you ignore the erotic-red clamps of my hands glistening with sweaty history, I guarantee not mentally unhinging the sterling safety pin through your brow,
and pinning my penis like a lonely burning arrow in your wagon train of youth.

To fort--you, 18 with a pageboy and black velvet dress, the fabric of my despair,
o star swallowed in the sputtering rage of middle age, this poem a drowning breath
with the metal trachea of guns, bullets of this love plopping
harmlessly as hail above deep oceans...

Some day may a diver be wise to whatever treasure exists not for usage-- Blinding coral  in the reef of your jaw.