Ancient perfume of armor mildewed in our wet nostrils
in the second hand store where the clothing had been
discarded and we locked lips in destruction's stance,
the beach-time lore of islands masked by fog's scent
that felt like memory and tasted like steel on your lips.

It's just another business
where the popes go to shop
for their Sunday vestments in
columns of monetary beliefs.

I had shopped for nothing
in the veils of aisles with
the summer at my feet,
when I bought I felt like
a subtle Orion
hunting with the star's sequence
for love's nova heat.

And they go towards the ancient backstep
when shopping is complete,
pedalling without balance through
the enraptured nonsense of
rum's spirit dragging at their minds
and feet.

Billowing fields wrought with isosoceles
and urban utopias turning red by sunlight
who bought the star with sleep.