What it feels like—to have thunder—aloft
a palm.
Dior trousers. Thousand-dollar sandals.
A futuristic blouse.
“Very likely!”
Been at it all night. Early morning
love. Rings in
Rainbows.
Mystic excellence. Too much interests.
Back to
London.
Can’t fashion those hips,
Filled with helium, pricy ice
factories.
Shopping at Nordstrom’s
Bathing in vanilla
Stopping at Prada.
Never met one like you, diamonds
bear witness
So violet, so innocent, pure
blackness.
Rambling. She’s so fortunate. A soul
made
“Volcanic.”
Shoes hurting, so new, staring at
riches; ink
Sins, dreams in passion, a rosy
fragrance—
The first with vocal silence.
Louis Vuitton bags. Trucks parked
on
Sidewalks.
The woman’s store.
The last at it.
The Morningstar—the budding tulip.
