The bosom's branches
joining a blue light
across a green expanse
platformed upon a seething tentacle
from the yearning core
bright voice of magma
tongue flicking from
the seams of the leaves

a fence of tits bobbling eyes
the meekness on oiled wood
a zone of milk doors
where what's born can smile

quartz fingers of a ridge in mica
gold and silver flaking from slate
to be renewed in the rip of water
and sent to sky.