Apostle
School door to summer days,
being ridiculously transparent
in the actual tones of speech -
seraphic shit, hero of gist.
Your consciousness and me.
When others are sleeping
believing the lies we rue, tiptoe
for we mean unseen beauty
and rapture in a garden of weed
rivaling our own words.
To this day, on the outskirts
of my body rich with moronic
ideas of two, the longest spoon
floats in tar colored themes and
variations of your piano lessons,
and for a long Nantucket minute
everything is celebrated in secrecy.
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