pooey tree

words drip from fingers
like worlds coalescing from
diffuse primordial whirls around big hot stars

each point you make carves pumpkins
in the antique glass of your ex lover’s
hot wax drip sex candle

she’s watching the iridescent beetles
crawl satisfied from the wedding robes
draped around your antique skeleton

she handles the water pitcher at the maidenhead
splashing ice crystals on the pussy willow
in the honeymoon suite between bedposts

you sleep on a rigid pillow and dream a utopia
not realizing the ripe fleshed dancers 
are young faeries testing their tricks

“can you give me your extra-dimensional autograph?”
she asks, offering a page no scribble can sign
“do you have any… other pens?” she asks

if being worm deep in an apple existence
or three legged in a bird world

if fishing in the river styx
while she watches

and the beetles crawling.