Unicorn
    by Douglas Gilbert

The last of the unicorns, she is mourning corny
and the myth of herself, looking at the protrusion
that would seem so merely Cyranoian, but she
without sword stirs half a lemon
in a tea brewed with tendrils of
boiling horniness and musical mist

She yearns to scream a redeemed love
full throated with soothing lozenge
that is a little sour treat with fickle silliness,
yearns to leap in circles like
there is no tale end and as if
her fickle tail catches star-giggles that
circulate like the blood of the universe
so that, with abandon and freedom
all could take heart and throb
like we could trumpet a mist
and flower like a noisy bouquet
on the horns of symphony

The last of the unicorns, she is stirring,
composing a tale with her tail

in the night sky
a horn

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