These, my lips, parted
with an oh-jeez-oh-man. Pale
angel’s bag of suns,
my heart counts new mornings
by a face held to my belly. A great orb
silvers over the spoiled wheat
of my sex tapes—oh, various enlightenments
swell and crush, but
you are atomic, killer, my darling
dear of the capsized raiment—
there are seven deadly sins I’d sickle
onto my soul for one brush of your stubbly
chin against my cheek
because this, my voice,
sounds as sand in the night’s
eyeball, where I wrap my legs like a vine
while the hereafter sends itself flowers
and I cry: I have known
the heart of the earth! Never sun
because fire gets pissed into nebulas—
but never you, great shade atrium, great Picasso
eye— you are the purple ball of my dreams,
the star-field I duck through
while wooing this, my air, my open
birdcage of breath.
