is a vanity: worse than lipstick.
Things are extraordinary.
The moon wanes.
A belly swells.
This poem is technical, yet angelic;
with the word apple in it;
and something about the blush of sleep.
This poem is crafty: a petite point.
It is structured in the breathless dream of night
where the sliver-moon sparks and magic
cells are stars dividing—
sailing in the void.