Gimme That. Don't Smite me.

The smear beneath the microscope lamplight
is like stained-glass midsummer
            Don't smite me,

when the sun, broken free of the squat
horizon, burns off pixel and photon and simmers
           Gimme that,

mid-sky, heating the air, making the sperm-tail kite
flash and plunge and rise over the heads of the swimmers,
            Don't smite me,

themselves plunging and rising, rising and plunging. What
did we want, up to our waists in the luxurious ocean, the somersaulting
            Gimme that,

toy at its height
that we could dismiss it with a splashing hand?: Some More, Some More, Some More,
            Don't smite me,

the sun, growing small as a period as if it couldn’t be placed one day at
the end of the list, the sentence, the summary.
           Gimme that,
           don't smite me.

                                                                    — first published in Plume 5 

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