square avenues, full jewel
ornate in a map made
by the grayest drones, shining alone.
I lurk around the painted pavements,
hoping for the kiss of her honeypot,
under the froth of noise
hungry for her cool poise
hot with her reflection
on my soul of glass, her superb ass.
I want to sow new arches
on these old foundations,
watch hallucinated stone
bow over open courtyards,
a garden paused
in trembling tranquility
for the black doves of her feet
flowers showered on the dead street
music pulsing from captured cicadas.
She is the fount of sacred lips,
her name is shaded.
The lid of time yearns upward
like a wet curtain
from her screen of eyes
to scan my frame into the fire of days
flowing down the cloth of mountainsides
I drink from her smoky thighs
in the crossing of hawk shadows
like a healing wound
hatched bright beneath
a bubblegum umbrella.
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