Everything is mounting.
Everything is rising,
arching to a form
or bridging to another,
molding to the sculptural marvels.
Clays hanker to fountain, into arts,
bricks, into architectural arches,
water, into springs,
springs, into rivers
rivers, into the whorls of rainbows,
shadows, in to the night.
Nights burst into twilights
twilights into blossom of sunsets
sunsets into the breakfast of your breast
on the bridge of my recumbency,
across the valley of your chest.
Mornings
emerged, sunk in the dews of your womb,
your scent;
blossoms
one by one
reincarnating me
in you.
