Moonlight in Larkspur

You are so close, like muppets

and waterbeds filled with gems,

like singing cupcakes and bliss on repeat,

or any number of things I can dream up.


You are so close, like when the wind

bristles the small hairs on my face and for 

a moment I am like that game where you

press your hand into the small metal pins–

amused, impressed upon,

without shape and shaped again.


You are so close, like when night flowers

are kissed by moonlight,

stirred to divinity in their sleep,

and light careens through their pistils and souls.

Something is remembered, whether from the

moonlight or their own imagination, they do not know.


It does not matter. Light is light any way you look at

it and you 


are so close.

Like dawn breaking over death, like the rubbish

getting picked up on Mondays, like dirty fingernails 

filled with life and chocolate, like the refrain of 

one soft and supple body.


Like vivid life stampeding across my heart until

it is sullied and gone,


sexed to God, consumed and remembered,


you are so close.