The moist sun blooms,
with night its sexual fantasy,
and sputters her embrace
around a world;

I spit.

And what follows
colludes with indeterminate orgasm
as peach pie bakes
in the oven of my mind’s invention.

We whip cream,
and eat the fat of our nostalgia.

And Heaven
cracks like an egg;
and the stars begin to crumble,
into powdered sugar rain

Sifted through a cerulean sky.

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