On Thursday Morning

What I want today is to lay
on a bed of myrtles
and have the rain wash over me
Gently, yet erotically
Like we were in an orgy;
Drops, in acrobatic trajectories,
Tumbling down my cheeks,
My chest, and my narrow abdomen.
My head, tilted East,
My fingers trembling with the boiling hormones
My brain howling,
My eyes meditating, like iridescent orbs on which
Shadows of galaxies converge in a cone.
On which pockets of shadows become permanent dreams.
On which pixels and voxels carving reality
Become summer clouds or smoke.
My legs form the rivers
On which hyacinths grow, and lilies blossom,
Across which X-rays of water waves
Buckle into sounds of the magical Winter,
That is now.
 
Four degrees, Thursday morning,
I see the moon on the Eastside sidewalk,
Like a broken bowl of white porcelain,
Waiting for the evening,
To make love to the clouds.