it was easy to think about love
in our mud-rusty
blanket face phase.
a whirling dream of misbegotten lies
a well-shaped organ of sweetness
of candy and cotton
and tumbleweed misdirection
that looped across the sky like the tail
of a comet brought forth
through countless hours
of exploration underneath
a blanket of stars.
a dreaming blue that signaled
a new kind of rapture
that enfolded and unfolded
and exploded
and then
corroded
like a raspberry snowcone
in a carnival park night time spill.
it was such a dream:
that dream of you and i
and the countless other people
that were witness to our public
masturbations of emotional lewdness.
it was a dream a dream a dream
of such magnetic beauty
like the head of medusa without the snakes
that maybe would turn nothing but our hearts to stone
and we would be cured of our dreaming
our endless sleep
of a willow pond in late summer
of dragonflies on a swimsuit top
of sex under the full moon
in a steamy backseat car
your pink silk dress pulled around your waist
the heat
of a sweat
stained
sock
caught in a doorframe in the rush
of blood
to the heart.
laying cool on a mountaintop
with windy conversations
and no nothings about us
but an evening in the blackness
of starlight kisses.
oh it was a dream of such
michelangelo greatness
that gods only
could tear it down.
and they did.
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