I slumber at the wakening,
tasting the luscious licks of the unwrapped
lollipops, sparks of sun settle
through frost-wintered windows,
white toes chilled against red circulation.
Morning cat meows plead of attention,
circling the unchanged litterbox- recognizing
her own beloved stench. Upstairs
the flowers sing like honeydew- “Me
and Bobby McGee” as we drove
to the scorched heat of Pheonix.
Sitting under moonlit tents, sanctuaries
of bodies held together by blazing fires,
conversation blends as easily as baryonic
matter in the cosmos, sparking brilliant neurons.
The night cold wore us like a blanket
of damped packed sand, the piercing
coals of envy and beauty embered
asymmetrically into the stars like soft
epiphanies. I swallowed the wood-burnt
smoke and ingested the amber flames.
Duerme con los angeles, mi amor,
feathered pillows spoke softly in accord
until the honeydew flowers chanted
the confined lullaby.