I lock my secrets in the subversive sea. A ghost ship prowls the Bermuda Triangle. A sonnet patrols the circular rims of my sanctioned eyes. Failing to roam the land like a bad idea, I knit myself to the ragged edge of the sea, as it furls and unfurls its turquoise banner against the hostile land. One thing is true. No woman can calculate the cunning of the sea. Dream of it and you drown. Drink of it and you dessicate. My secrets, tucked in their crimson wrapper, will mutate and spawn new life forms. Life that will hurl its body onto the gaping shores of misanthropic continents determined to conquer.

The sun retreats to her chalet to party with other hotties. Night slides over me like a tongue, shameless. What shall I name the hurricane born from my meekest breath? Fertile galaxies swirl, swivel, and sway in slinky black gowns sewn with stars like diamonds and pearly planets as buttons down the back. This night does not belong to me, but I will adore it. I shower beneath the silky onyx sky, and warm champagne floats out of the faucet.