you justify
the sentence
in this prison
of the flesh
by the merit
of an offhand touch
leaving me
in study
at the basin
of the desert sun
tending
to each bead
of salted dew
just the slightest hint
of your florid rendezvous
more than piques
a passion
poised to sate
the quenchless gods
when the skies
have shuffled off
the blaring beams
of inquest
urgency finds me
at your behest
at last
within your presence
every sense caressed
by vibrant coils
all divergent seas
now coalesce
upon your breast
as we soar
through stolen
secrets
from these realms
of the Akashic
trails of our assimilation
scintillate our wake
all the stars
bespeckling
the stretching blackness
bear no sweeter fruit
than a single second
spent within your arms
precious
as the poignancy
of truth’s
most perfect pattern
Max, or Not 