Papyrus scribbles. Richly bled 

heated heart stuttering and swelling. 

Our shoes forgotten, lay the 

table with Mediterranean swallowings and 

open the bottle of fierce, affirming rivers. 

Sunlight absorbed hydrates the meadows of 

your water plant pages covered in 

notes on the battles of the silver moon tides. 

Turn the page, write this down. 

Here, turn it again, taste some wheatgrass, and, 

energized, maybe you can keep the flames out of the 

sky. Never fading, never not nourished, 

inch by inch, plant your love root in the white-pink of the 

streets of Montmartre. Love, we couldn’t be closer to God.