I love stickers.
I run everything through my sticker maker.
I forced my flip flops through,
then a starfish,
a river of my hair,
a beach chair.
My scrapbooks brim with beaches, ballerinas
and heart attacks.
What won’t you run through my machine?
What won’t you laminate and stick with me?
Is God hovering just above the water restless?
God is salt.
He is always salt.
He fills the sea with delight,
cleans the air,
sows the fields.
He taketh away.
He notices neither.
Veiled by a history of kisses,
I hide from unknown eyes,
my skin concealed in dewy molecules
in this connection
I build a convent
The sacred is when two worlds touch.
The world may follow fire,
but I know a place where shadows spin roulette,
the dark and wet the only fashions worth following.
My neighbors collect babies and
I envy them their cornucopia of giggles.
They have had their eye on my storehouse of sleep for months,
and if I didn’t need it like blood I would arrange a trade.
My pill plant is growing chubby little tablets
dry as math.
Harvest day is here.