Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Petroleum

 
Maybe it’s my book that grows up in your
Womb –
What else would my words hide in the
Air for
What else would my blood keep silent
Under your heartbeat for…
 
Each night I imagine your whole
Psychology
Striving to put forth a new line, a new
Word
On the palimpsest that I stole from my
mom,
on the hide of your spare dime purse –
 
The moon shines over your bookish
breasts,
the night breeze leafs your eye-rhyme breath:
 
is it my book
that keeps growing in your womb
good God