A.I., or Ardor’s Incandescence

                            Christ suffers in reverent gold on crucifixes, gifts  
from the elderly, all over the walls. Omar embraced
     his role as hospice lead.
                                           His office harbored a hide,
                              stretched and dried, a tan sling darker than bronze,
                                           with steel studs and rings, a hue he yearned to summon
                                                          every summer.
                                                                                   We smoked, listened to Helen Reddy’s melody,
                                                then Grace Slick urged us to feed our heads. We consume clouds
                           numbing our mouths. A caterpillar calls and she sings, as you lie
                                                                                               on my chest, supple and sleek.
                An incoming windstorm rattles our embrace
                             like live wires. Your eyes widen, I slip my feet
                                          into stirrups, my legs raised high
                                                                                     making a steeple of myself.