Turn, fire
ply the taws
to the King’s backside, truly
signal a break in the fear
of apogee pursued
by arroyo; storm-scalloped
weather-beaten weeds
ring us, we chant lullabys
to an out of tune guitar
as the coals smolder in the
morning. We are still up,
and bump smoothly on.
of nought her cries to me
when I was ensconced in the power
spectrum narcosis, stretch-lines throbbing
at my temples and my blood squirming
like medusa serpents, radiant telekinetic blooms
for imaginary eternities that you and I inhabit,
just not the way we expected
of our journeys
eyescratch, mindwipe
her face covering
by sand, my cower
glands forsake
the hymnic rites
of pearls,
the pear tree
resplends golden
in a desert sky.