Strange Creatures Pt. 1: Heaven is a Devil of a Headtrip

Lips like dancing a slow cabaret,
gently hiding starlight.
Locks caressing, begging at release.
Your arms, joining the jubilance
of finding something sweet.

In this light, you could be a perch,
spinning, effortless, below a dock.
I catch, in your skin, momentary stars;
you let me catch just water and wind, but
in this light, I am sure
that you are the whisper between the piquant breeze,
the silver in the poplar grove.

Lithe like poplar trees
and smooth like arbutus peeled
back from bark; slender
as sending away for sainthood,
to be delivered in a field of wheat,
in late Summer’s bounty,
in the slender, uncovering waves,
drifting over your beach.