There is only wonder.

This small pink flower squinting

at its own yellow haze.

That thickens the air

And softens the muscles

that frame

unknown lovers.


She looks at the broken glass

and whispers.

The fine lines burdened by true remorse.

A mass grave,

a holy one.

What punishment?

He was only detached,

an observer of his own visions.

Never a saint,

or Mary Magdalene.


Oh Bobby,

the drifting dust in the air,

that gave it dimension,

that positioned the filters.

A single body slumped over

a slowed loveseat.

The skin that fills

the space between planes.

Waking up,

the red relief on his thighs.

Every Ray is the same.

Prisms of permanence.