If the sky has a trap door

to the leaping background

that stars like bullet holes

indicate while wavering

in celestial steam,

in your naked outline

let me pig out on the richness

of so much dangling shade,

so many vines that reach

planets in purple turmoil

if the serpents all

have the same disruptive

singing mouth

let me fall to the arms

of a secret south

and nestle in its hinge

while the solar wheels

gulped by black holes

let us out into the depth

beyond the fringe.