pours its red milk of fire.
Shores recede from bathers
who are making love, their light
enters the water.
I see a whole ancient temple
at the bottom of my coffee cup.
It is not yet in ruins,
cornices shine like daggers,
altars in front of circular thrones
conjure faint electricity,
a blue fog wraps around
my crown of paper reborn as metal.
Soil is sweetened with feverish seed,
dripping from a dark valentine
skin jeweled by honeysuckle
and bronzed by a lunar beam.
The trees blown back rattle
like tinfoil and ripple like cream.
The map of happenings
is silent and distilled
inactive as an unobserved electron
all the roots in one fallen petal.