and generous to the BT poems, I will finish some of the stragglers and post them. Perhaps we're looking at a chapbook. From where I sit, I can see the nightdarkmoist soil of the freshly tilled and watered garden. It does a heart (even a depleted, robbed one) good.
Orange Sun Oozing
like a popsicle left in a hot car,
a crayon or a lifesaver. Big star
stuck in a vast pond, big orange slice
congealed in the blueberry jell-o skies.
Her heaven’s sexy, vibrant, as the words
risqué or tangerine. Her heaven’s armed
two-lipped, black nightied, sassafrass, sweetass,
and heavened again, a twin-star: juicy
with wishes; the mind’s eye disrobing one
planet then the next, the constellated
pores sprayed out on the ever-midnight
chest, celestial shout-out to suggest:
let nothing go uncelebrated.