for everything which is yes

Back and forth and back
and forth and back and forth and
back and…I am sick.

Burrow–bring a pick
axe if you have to. Just find
a way to my heart.

Your sphere celestial,
Canis Minor orbital,
mine simply reflects.

Admitted voyeurs,
we lurk in shadows while they
pelvic-thrust keyboards.

It shoves a stone–its
trademark–down your throat {choke} and
into your stomach.

It wakes you from sleep
mid-night just to let you feel
its devouring teeth.

Somewhere between a
smile and a stare, an echoed
whisper: “God is good.”