Subtle Wonders

A cricket explodes.
There is a river of nothing but eyes.
The woman puts the moon in her shirt.
All the graves are a network in heaven.

At night trees dream you as a branch.
All of the kisses add up to wings and bones.
Heroes are largely an outcome of analysis.
The soft dead book is in love with me.

I, accidentally guilty of impersonating Venus.
Hilariously bereft of every fetish of grace.
I, a desert whose grains are the future tears of music.
Carefully wiping the remains off of the map.