the soft curve of chance
                              could not bite me

(though sometimes i wish it would)

but fashion a path
                   that takes me to heaven



almost skyward - you
                                      yet equally so
                                             armward

draped head in gold&sunlight with
your planetary blaze

maybe less avessel for life but more
                                           incendiary

electric,plasmic & so not crystalline
despite your form,inspiteof how you
shimmer & dance & fadein&out of it



you are the future i see when i sleep
my temple to your hip

it is my temple;

your hip