There is a kingdom at my door, bright
with smells of pine and vintage leather.
Its windows rival overarching skies of
great plains, spurring vertigo, making me
swell with ancient momentum,
making me erupt like celestial confetti from
Galaxy’s oldest volcano. The kingdom at
my door touches gently, riches
encompassing with gold and I drown inside
myself, swallow too much of its serenity
and when I’m too far gone, it’s far too late.
It creates a magic that spills from my fingertips
as I touch its most revered place, those fortress
walls along ago toppled and crushed. I drink
from the fountain of Apollo, gushing, bursting,
taking, giving. Its gifts for me reach China’s wall
but the gift I long for -inside the kingdom’s
warm bricks- it gives me sparingly with
a teasing touch. Spoiled, I am bathed
in elation and splashed with affections.
My door is forever open, the hinges rusted.
My kingdom howls only
my name, as I make it erupt in song and strength.
My words do not make sense,
they make love.