is the sea not mad?

or has summer boiled us whole?

the breeze has dripped salt on my lips

and I have turned wild

your salt on my lips

will you take me to the cedar grove?

I was a prisoner in the garden

milking black honey from shoots

planting my two-lips along dry basins

and longing for tuberous truths

but then you, mud angel

trespassing on another’s dream

slipped your way into my Eden

and washed my fate clean

and at once my life remembered

the cyclic splash of bleak Decembers

had suddenly seemed stranger

than the present tense

as your grace as great as prophet

unto my impostor self imparted

a planar truth no more contorted

then, this present sense

and sorrow’s held no solace since