Avalanche

Those organic fractures

Of our komorebi 

Breaths—chaotic and 

Heavy—are 

Absorbed by the tribal

Dreamcatchers.

The tower houses on your skin

Look amber in the 

Streetlight.

The plundered topography of

Your rugged body—broken

Asphalt of inner city

Suburb.

The streets of wooden love 

Burn like meteor

Showers in this moaning

hour.

This room—sour cream—becomes a

Satellite city of 

Our hundred gasps.

What is sex but self-preservation? 

Amidst the wasted condoms

On the floorboards, like

Wild seaweeds, I desperately

Seek—a skylar caught in

A violent storm—to survive in you.

After all, sex burns away

Like satin smoke

Before sunrise—lost, disintegrated.

Where do lost things go?

Do not lovers become strangers

Again after midnight? 

What is conscience but the aftermath of pastel-colored sins?

How can two strangers who

Make love become 

Offensive?

What is sex but creating art out 

Of lonely nights? 

Those Vatican Gods 

Murmur

That sex is an avalanche

Of ice.

But oh, my stranger lover, when 

Has any snowflake 

Ever felt responsible for it?