on the phlegm of my throat wand
the presto
the i don't know
with years of time beneath me caking
to the black shelf of an egg bay
and the rotten stench wafts brightly .

 when keats writes:
"a thing of beauty is a joy for ever"
i am the beekeeper
and over my skin, you: protective leathers
or just beekeeper whatevers...

it's in seeing the honey
makes
me quicken for you.

like: i want you wrapped in the upward stretch
of the jasmines' spine. to nibble on your little
green leaves. breathe your jasmine scent
until i perfume of it.

it's in the stars though
that i am tired and swimming between
the lost space between the north
and the south, the ego
i left with you lies like broken furniture
roadside
the flight

is safe, is perfect, finishes off the broken sentence
where love gets jammed in my throat and
i cough and you blink

maybe i get missed.

no promises.