A story yet untold of peaceful lakes asleep under the stars: new worlds
brewing in their deep hearts.

The warmth of the night cut open like a ripe fruit. I roll over –
picking moths off the crumpled sky.

A piece of heart: wedged into flesh – raining woodflakes – the chisel 

slides along its curves.

I long for the sky to fold its great wings around me. To sleep in its embrace until purity comes

in its boundless, dazzling glory; to be boundless. To step outside of myself, and breathe.

In anticipation

Mango thoughts ripen lazily in the deep, hot shade.
Ripped apart,
they bleed sweet juice into your hungry mouth.