The Face of the Night

She has a face. She ties it to a tree
for all you bondage freaks and wears the moon
upon her shoulders. It's a dream of clouds
gone wrong; of shadows split like yawns, or like
crotchless black leather... For she says the night
is her poonanie and the north star throbs:
a silver piercing in the hooded arch
of a sky suffering from post coital
ennui. Her spine is bent for punishment
beneath the whiplash of the Milky Way;
slow torture of a blow falling for one
billion years. Her face - yes, it will end where
it began - with her dark veil torn aside
and a look that urges penetration.