trading coins on the mezzanine,
with it's torrid meticulous beads and florets of glass and fired stones,
a mosaic of our true currency in the spirit-realm of our blintz on sugar pillories,
our divine spark sharpens
the dark wheel....
a sphere with the skin of a prehistoric  shark.
where the open heart is a misery of roses
making love with more abandon
than hell.

making true love.