Oberon stands by;
     summer is asleep.
Puck reclines, lethargic eyes,
     wildflowers threaded
through his coarse, nether hair.

Transience is key, you know.
The gentle ebb and flow of your pulse
     and the sudden thrumming of your triste coeur,
the flash of his hair in the sun.
The blush on the back of your neck
     and the woeful pang of lust,
buried back down by his muffled laughs.
Empty space,
     flinching warm fingers,
bitten holes in smooth cherry lips -
Remembering you're just lonely,
     not thinking about him for a second once you're out the door,
except when you catch his eyes in the rain.
     Fleeting moments often last the longest,
that's when you know you're sick.

And so, with him, the marble body of Apollo would not be so easily outdone.
Look how Hephaestus' muscle-clad arms would not surrender,
    nor would his.
Look how Dionysus would weep at the acid in his vineyard veins,
    eyelids struck with Zeus's violet lightning,
And so the blood in which Ares bathes drips down the fault lines in his chalky palms,
    lips pinker than the silk of a woman, smoother than Eros's thighs, feet bruised like Heracles's would have been.
Our modern day Paris, gorgeosity incarnate,
    even in that livid instant of death.

I see us in technicolour delights,
    jabbing knives into old dictionaries to name strangers' children,
surrounded by foreign fire,
    alone but all at once together,
but borders and rivers cannot change our laughter.

Our souls are empty space,
    black peeling paint on your bedroom door.
Our hearts are made of bursting yellow,
    dripping handprints of eternal sun.
Our eyes are dull and lonely,
    murky paint water and smashed beer kegs.
Our eyes are smoky and dark,
    grey as Rimbaud's cheeks on the covers of your books.
Our hearts are bare, white skin,
    liver spots and silvery temple hairs.
Our souls are speckled brown doves,
    the beating of frustrating wings,
*je rappel maintenant ce que c'est que d'être libre.

Early ******* to blasphemy
     and morning chorus on the solstice;
gentle white twilight
     and the earth tumbling around,
asleep.

Go home, star brother -
     take the even flow, shuttle out of nowhere,
go home where Andromeda waits.
Take it slow, star brother -
     hitch a ride below Orion's belt,
go home where heartbeats stay.