from your bare chest nine swords emerged
bedecked in gold and precious stones
the honey which flowed from your sacred wound
tasted better than any sort

my chest is full of burning coals / a penitent shepherdess, dreaming / above the slumbering world the moon changes shape / through the waking-world, spring turns to summer / i kneel before the garden in sorrow / one olive in my hand

It’s 8 am
And I was writing
Poems in my sleep
Perfect prose
If every
Mundane minute
Was at least
A year
Coffee stirrers
And reaching
Into the glove box
For ribbon

8 am and it’s
The third morning I’ve had today

many lives were lived by one / thousands of eternities have passed / twenty-one years on this earth / i rot and grow again / i lay still and let the earth swallow me whole

the April maiden grins a toothy grin / she dances and sings, diadem of baby's breath / upon her dark head, upon her soft brow / she holds the hand of sweltering Summer / and the sun heralds a new hymn / and the world swells in chorus / and for once, the world has stopped

you fed me a sticky-sweet fruit
covered in honey, you watched me
as it dripped down my mouth
as it coated my fingers

you observed me in golden hues
under a city that never sleeps
your eyes behold so much beauty
your lips speak so much sweetness

you were the color of the sun
tho they culled your dark hair
ripping the root from the tree
scattering them across murky waters

you were veiled in gossamer
early morning eating away at your bitter bark,
hand pressed against mine.
we plant ourselves like apple trees
your roots yet to regrow.