and envisioned hillsides spread out beneath us,
curving down with rigid patterns in our bones
and legs, and all the ants that scrambled about us unseen
and unrepentant of their Herculean strength sunk back
into the churned loam, separated from me, my body,
a private receptacle of experiences,
to feel suddenly from the sarcophagus of my stomach
a loose angelic hallelujah beginning to fill my lungs, ecstatic overgrowth
in Locrian modes, half diminished,
shorn from my fingertips to yours in electric blue
energies, which leapt in wide prismatic arcs to reinvigorate
us, while our limp attractions stung like uneven stitches
from ear to grinning ear, the sky overflowing
with oranges, with pinks, with reds burnt out by rain,
with yellows torn from their spectrums, the clouds
a purple constipation of matter.
My side ached and you
said – it’s only the weather – where I kissed you a burned
mark still stuck on your flesh, molten and pulsing, and the sun
pulled its weight from the sky in slow frames of discolored helixes,
the light, a burnished overflow, erupted
across the horizon and curled quietly about the globe.
