My maiden! My titan!
Sing to me your dear deceits in rooms washed by blue static
beneath Midwestern sunsets and within each ember
of the clear burning 'shine, the ambrosia of the partisan
who rises to your song. Your drawling whisper coils and cusps
my form in a warm net of electrical cables, thick and course
as the obsidian hairs lumped lusciously upon your shoulders.
I too rise!
I fall into the sweet sands you have given me and I lap upon them
as a fragile sailor starved and weathered, welcoming his port
with salted kisses upon each stone, each path, each rigid rag
long soaked in liquid love and left to dry at the hearth you’ve made.
I become lost in the boundless dunes of here, of there, of those beneath
your smile and mounds still yet unknown to any hand but God’s.
That quiver and flare!
The saturation of the television light!
Through now vacant halls of the blanch manor I can hear you still.
Ride well, bringing that cumulus with you! Your sweet deceits,
your honeyed thunder and rolling dunes, make use of them elsewhere!