If sin existed
it does not hold a name in our green palace

bewitched by the eyes of fantasy we run
into open grass plains

the gloaming border sky blinds us
like a kaleidoscopic phantasm

that encircles us
and entrances us with the rhythm our laughter makes
as it echoes across the big green
like chimes on midsummer night

here
between the bur oak trees
and the trill of the white tipped dove
we shape shift
compress tight
to explode