To me, you are a paradise
Stretched far beyond the mind's frail grasp
What glory found on simple sands
Could elicit such awestruck gasp?

None other, love, but you alone,
Could promise such without a word,
But with a look, a simple touch,
Make silent sentiment so heard.

Endless summer, boundless heaven,
Far from the path I thought to trod;
You've echoed hymns they've never sung
Words written by the hand of God.

There is a constellation that knows you well, a piece of heaven that saw you take your first steps,
a clusters of stars that watched you fall asleep and hushed you when you dreaded the burst of darkness overhead.
They knew your story.
They sang your lullabies.
They fished out the moon out of the lake and washed off its impurities so you can hold soft light in your hands.
They braved the rabid bites of winter so they can fill your pockets with the sun.
They’ve always wanted you to sail North, away from the wasteland polluted with emptiness, upstream in a kayak, where the lakes sing your name.
Until like most stars, you dipped your toes in the pond and burnt out.
The stars they call you—reignite once again.

this hawaiian dream
of a feathery supercluster
connecting strands of light..
one feather for now
but is this one
of one bird
in one flock..
our minds wander
and weaken
no answer there
Who am I...?

Five sea turtles bask,
the evening sun glinting off their shelled backs.
The sand glistening with each waves retreat.
Like statues, the turtle guardians.

One cracks an eye, slow,
peeks at those watching,
pointing,
then closes the eye again.
Not concerned with human things,
it's only desire to store sun fire
deep under it's scale skin,
bring it back underwater
and heat its soul within.

We fall hunting for laurels,
shredding

       our purple bruises
       into rose hips.

Our silversmith rings lose their fingers,
cracked irreparable.

       Our lives of lavish luxury
       lives as lapis lazuli.

The banks of the Ipswich
call out:

       silhouettes behind birch bark.
       Remember

how we used to swim
her waters;

       tread her auric ebb?
       We aim at deer, at ripening

persimmons. They chew
the fruit pretty.

       We aim at killdeer.
       Kiss a wasp.

We were dead fireworks
under Laniakea eyes.

       As midnight, we are
       films noir:

we imagine *******
Lauren Bacall from behind,

       speaking and kissing in tongues,
       her mouth tasting

of unfiltered smoke,
breathing the snow

       melting
       down her rose hips.

We stuff the stuff of nightmares
into a cardboard box.

       We howl at solar winds and polar vortexes.
       We are a vesica; both/and.

We fall hunting for laurels,
adolescent pulsars with persimmon eyes.

Earth,
Geospace,
Earth-Moon System,
Inner Solar System,
Solar System,
Solar Interstellar Neighborhood/Local Interstellar Cloud,
Local Bubble,
Gould Belt,
Orion Arm,
Slightly Over Halfway to the Galactic Center of the Milky Way,
Milky Way Subgroup,
Local Group,
Local Sheet,
Local (Virgo) Supercluster,
Laniakea Supercluster,
Observable Universe,
Universe.
Boom.

Laniakea
a late perception..Hawaiian immense heaven
a boundary moving outward with doubt that
this is the end limitation..
And in a contracting mood the Great Attractor
an inward pull and seeming declaration of
our locality our mortality..
Outward and inward
might we transcend this dualism
and experience the vibration
infinite and without locality
our true SELF...