Twigs of desire
are bundled with heart into
passion’s kindling.
Poor matte candlestick;
atlas to an engulfed wick,
you are lost, outshined.
The formless dances
on a world belonged to form
until edges bleed.
Dear golden peacock
perched on the jade windowsill,
your plumage blocks stars.
On the picnic bench
I sat my journal of dreams;
a quick breeze flipped through.
When I see you grin,
the wave-function of my heart
collapses to joy.