i assume the doom you crave is a silent relent on a peninsula
of disquieted content. a ginger so daffodil that a kite
is often mistaken as a coffin with no balloons.
i assume you’re not where the map knows
where a woman keeps her things.

the way you flirt with blank fingertips to grip the spire of some dystopian flame.
it makes you the goddess i condone… the worship at sea… toppled across horizons
beyond Poseidon in such a way as to yearn more
than every lonesome thing… unkempt in the blithering enigma of You.
with too many kernels of wicked thoughts
to be a good girl.

when you swaggered into view… i assumed you had rainbows
wrinkled in time like a dayglow yurt on the moon.
your ******* too strange to be dealt with by chest.
my hands wanton and disassembled in my yearning.
i had never caught a glimpse so heavy as your wondrous magnolian charms.
and thusly, all things withered when you stepped
out of light.