Kingdom By The Sea

I cup your breasts in my hands,
snails gather on shore with torches.

The rusty Russian tractor
in a dilapidated barn.

The wind runs like a little boy,
a stick of phone numbers in his hand.

The dictator of the sun
pockets the balcony.

He shuffles back inside like a lemon tree.
His subjects lift their eyebrows from themselves.

We go back to making love,
grateful God made so many immaculate mistakes.