We all breed sinners—

Thick siren's sludge of life, at the speed of light
in a vacuum of a wine bottle's neck.
not the same black-green, but almost.

Suddenly there is only 
One woman in the world.
I am the world. I am beautiful and good.

What is the distance between sighs? Who can sleep
when the wind smells of sulfur? Wasn’t it summer?
She wore a white dress. Even silk sweats.

I think I was weightless. I daydreamed.
A wing, a world. You are the world. 

Suckling at a honeycomb: suction
of chapped lips on waxed hexagons.
Bees birth, then eat the stuff—
Life begets life, or so I have heard.

Honey can't be sloughed off the skin.
Sunspots of bees cover her body,
ebony and saffron—a snapping, like a jaw,
then a suit of cinnamon.

A slender willow branch becomes the Throne of the universe.
At last—quiet. 
On the horizon, empty skeletons, 
a cache of madness.
To sing to yourself is best: to swallow your own voice like
an aspirin. Careful not to lodge it in the throat, tearing at esophagi,
coming back up in bile.

I don't believe in the third act.
One: willow.
Two: fall.
Three: should be shattered sheet of river

but I can only see diffraction of 
infinite chiffon 
(the layers sound like violet blooms wilting)  


golden aura of fingertips and
migraine of fennel seeds—
an avalanche of fennel seeds. 
She can succeed where Icarus erred.
Why not swim into the center
of the universe?
It smells of raspberries and
rum.