I hear prophecies of you

in David Bowie.

The madness of the radio

is silenced by your breasts.

In the crux of crossing shadows

I see you are the trees

that cast them.

I walk beneath your body

through the sky

and then back in

over platforms of laughing soil.

The atmospheric curtains

thrust me out

to the senseless stars

and airless majesty again

I long for your talk of butter

of small grains and earthly things

that blossom in the flame of your hands

imperfect devourer

sweet fount of braids and chains

where I give up my wandering

and you send me into ashes

waiting for a pin to prick my soul

for you to pipe my longing

deep to be the water of my air.