Unicorns endure only
the brief touch of a maiden, her pure palm
free of the snarl of man’s complications—
his tangled and blood-thick love.
Innocence is often folded paper-thin,
sun-warm, delicately alive
in the wild. Stark before the backdrop
of green, the unicorn’s breath
blesses the bark of the trees
and the purple-headed chives.
Night might whisper us a different story.
Paper-cut and restless, the unicorn
staggers from its hollow of heather,
cream-colored and ready
to be bad.
To smoke at the edges, ink the tips
of its paper paws. Search for the sun
in the maidenless dark: indigo,
thick with desire.