home

he sees a delicious assortment of hair
wildly diving and winding through itself
intertwining and dining with itself
a curled masterpiece of chaotic pleasure

not long after glimpse an iris or two
extensive and anti-blue yet deeply
rooted rich like tossing two pebbles
into a well and no splash for hours

abreast on the horizon and rising
so creatively open to him alone
his to climb with a thumb or tongue
and two perfect but not too perfect

at long last the port arrives in view
a fruit not a feast an apple or a peach
his place of refuge, solace, and peace
he slips into a foggy morning reverie

the body of a lake clear as his thoughts
into which he dives so gently and soft
that only a single moistened ripple
encircles his body as he enters his home