It's naive to believe in the
groundness of things.
My eyes are half-closed, shielded against
it's a balance: a see-saw fulcrum, my feet paddle
air. I'd like to begin: Oh Yes: let's begin.
The French pour
les pensées singulièrement privés
set down in sin. "My
love, my love,
Come straight to me." for the ovulation
it's charm, a symphony.
An intense light: this smelt of
each of us tied to our own little worlds.
rolls on: the applause is loud.
sun melts our Icarus wings to a knob
of swift sealing wax. Athena
shakes her head.
As the moon lit owl calls its regrets.