Dancing on the mangled
corpse of Jupiter, we recall
nothing but revelry. I wonder
about God and summer and
poor boyish ignorance.

There are eggshells in my hair,
or maybe they simply are
my locs. Snapping like shedskin,
left and right, they are an offering.
Divining me, divining you.

Pan-fried resistance,
Your tongue beckons
I am a celestial body
blindly hopping galaxies;
Devour me.