Arms lithe, hands writhe, kissed at tips to a mai
hair gilded straw over ivory skin.
You spun from beach rings of rucksack and toke
emerged from a puff of arabesque smoke.
Weak force this gravity that binds objects
past beauty to the teepee of the loins.
Ovoid dying star, your fertility
collapsed to sobs of supernova child.
I looked at the kid and hoped it worth it
to sacrifice our life and all, you know,
for dissolution and irrelevence.
Typical man, you said, rolling your eyes.
“I’ll get you for that,“ hissed our progeny.
“Dying, you’ll beg for the morphine you need.”
Copyright 2015 by Boinkaz