What poem can emerge from the physicists’
zero-point field, or the white fractal light
of the DMT God-smoke vision?
When the personal dissipates in a cloud
of eternal incense, or parades in mathematic
carnival, where will reside the beating heart,
the fingertip touch of the poem
that wears your skin? It is in
all ways within your flesh that I erect
my altar and chant the lays of paradise –
kiss, caress, and tear of pleasure
tasted like salt from the pink
flushed lick of your desire.