(i) Land on my temple, O soft palmfrom a flower's petalto brush me downmy cheekswhen I'm in the forest of a nebula.
Let that palm brush softer than moth skin, brighter than a flameof gold petal.And louder than a glowinghibiscus trumpet sinking
the ringing refrain: "you and only youspin in my radar".(ii) Traction is churnedfrom a close angleand harvestedfrom the cauldronof a sundial chimes, as gems cookinside a sun's furnace brewing fondlesthat pump spumeand froth to the shores of the one loverstill wrigglingfrom the stingof a buzzing bee. That dived in for nectarand jumped outwith only hard rock to sip.(iii) But find and grab a gemshooting off steam throughthe blaring bubbling lipsof a cauldronto moist and glaze mewith silver steamthat will not melt off? O buzzing beefrom a sizzling cauldron's mouth, many other bees have bounced by, partingwith all my nectar, as I writhe out of a departing sting.But a cooked gem spins a green bouquet, a white iris of stainlessnessflashing outthe gluing heliotrope of a preened fondle, its feathers the cerulean sky that risesand doesn't fall back: Go out to the gardenand pick that flowerwaving rainbows throughthe gossamer sprayof a buzzing sky carryingno cloudy bowsto shoot off thunder.Only hanging bladesof lightning swing, cutting through no fondling palm.
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8/3/2021 4:59:50 PM # 18.104.22.1689