A lavish swirl
takes the cup down a road unexpected; I see a
performance of elements relishing in the soup of life,
a serpentine window saying that
beauty floats, karma is an
action of a fingertip touching a hot
blackness.

At some point, we begin
tipping the scorpion’s claws into scales and bringing
justice to souls through
foot taking a step, giving the slow pool a good
shove—

the milk, blooms like a great owl’s wings,
a breath
in the night under a city
lamplight. When I take drink all of nature
stings.