That is all not sure.
These two hard things
heart and soul
may shatter as glass,
may split their pods
of flame
when they hit
the floor.
Spill themselves
in slow spasms,
as you come,
down there,
in the small of my back.
And an ocean
blossom into shape and sight,
out of the red of reds,
pale as wine.
And my skin smell
of cum, smashed flowers,
and — bliss.
But this is all not sure.
The glass of joy,
out of which we may be spilled
at any moment
peals inside of me,
then breaks.
Broken, unbroken,
and broken again,
back and forth into
the germinating Always,
or is it — Never ?
I watch your naked feet
dance among
glass splinters
no one can see,
and wonder if
it’s a seal broken
or just
a broken world.