Beau Ideal

Do I trust the pull
the night time tide
and blur and last
drop drained
from each
crevice in
the fish-eyed
wine bottle?

Exhilaration of flight.
Galaxies too much
for my monkey brain
to conceive
so crashing I abort all memory and wake
mind bleached clean
throat all acid
and afterburn
something beautiful creeping
away on the
bright edge of day.

I named it Joy
and Sin
and
The Perfect Glory of Dancing In a Room Full of Stangers and Imagining You Are

Alone.