The Columns

I’ve been shooting at stars

in lazy floods

all day in this Rapture

hoping I strike a piece

of you so it will fall in toy diamond,

citrate frost, something I can chew on.

Your braided dream lilies looped

together with dowsing rods crafted

by an alchemist in a deleted scene

from a shelved noir.

For this space ordained

you, this panel graffiti in obsidian marker,

the confessional alarm

in your belly button,

and your bitten lilypad

psychofage waits for your heart’s Host

to fall with flipper women hissing

beneath spinning Roman columns,

hungry as light bulbs dimming,

their receivers

ringing one

after another