the heart is a maze. a gasp of breath between ocean and air, miles of fey strewn pollen blown gold among all else, unstable eyes of glass that pierce through burnt lips with good news. still a song rises high to creep up from behind, as the steep of bell towers quake to siren, should i be haunted by the stare of this tigers’ mask? should i be a song and dance reaching for nothing? the soul is a lightning bolt, a split tree on a hilltop, an ember that never fades in dark showers, a land of heavy sun and care, warm water on cold skin. still a song rises, high beyond the hills we know, the space between wet tongues, dripping with mirth. life is a gift, an auroral pasture you can reach out and touch, a calamity of dreams and sacrifice, and at the pool of narcissus we are reflected, in fragrant brumes and violet veils, to sing aloud in endless song, before a gift that has no coda, inside a glass house with no ceiling, and you smile, like a child in afternoon debris, in the presence of perpetual summer, a flood of rainbows on endless horizons, carries us home.