Limerence

Sundried escapism and a skyless spirit vacates.

I can no longer write sonnets---they are redundant. 

What: to be free and joyful, emergently?

Various ballads one can tie around a smile 

Or another---above the surface beauty as will

Kill me out here in the open where it flares,

Dizzy and drunk.

At the impossible edge of nothing

And yet to feel soaked and suspended,

Heavy particles of air,

Wet and desiring.

To breathe is either one or the other:

The grass beneath my feet 

Or the scalding blue above.

Both will kill me

And neither endure.