Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

My brown-glass bottle Hefeweizen toast—
unfiltered like the visage of a sag
cloud spectacle, like dirty woolen legs
relaxing, elevated, crossed, at peace—
liked sweaty rank humidity that stains
the Shenandoah high and low – the flow
of cosmos and the river sky above
like seams of angel heaven – seems like love
and citrus banquets, cold as lacework snow
and intricately hot like summer rains
that up from sunbaked pavements steam release
and rise like butterflies among the dregs
of weeds that bleed love’s nectars best and drag
throughout my throat a lovesong good to boast.