the chemicals in a sunbeam
beach the whale of my moonshine
your clutch like a happy thorn
and my demise, a misbegotten
agenda.

you corona.

switchgrass in a dead calm waste
singing authoritative psalms
to my anguish… squishing stigmata
into the plane of flat nails
summoning gargantuan plumes
of happiness, spawn of some witchcraft forgotten
like a pin in a Butterfly
fat on a *****
of hook

that reels the real
to the surface
by your bottom
lip.

the crown of our preternatural plumage
is the rake of your windswept karma.
i plunge with you
as we dive
and completely surface
when I sink

to the zenith of your Love.