Sunday Mornings


The Sunday morning sun
Glazing the eye that keeps searching for the foothold
Of how beautifying the stitch of your wife is
Loosely bellying out to the light
Like flesh-colored sugar plums
Breaking open on my skin, with a slow drip of honey.
Oh how beautiful is the land of the sugar plum fairy.
And if you listen close enough, you can hear the sugar plums
Breaking open, almost like the splatter of snow on rock.
Sugar bombed, her lungs scream hallelujah,
In earth-shattering rejoice.

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