in tender onyx,
under pressure,
cooking,
the sun spits
it’s splits onto
the ship that
peels like
a croissant.
a wreckage or
surplus
of blistered
bliss aged,
a rectangle of
cheese pouting
under mold,
Macbeth as he
grew old.
A man so sparked,
his insides
purred under
dark spell of
renovation,
decomposed
ovulation.
frail plank,
still like a
man quiet
after a stroke,
till some flooded
sparkle from
heaven
palpates.