even the sun comes down
sideways

it's a shifty virgin world

within a universe so pure
it's holding
nothing back
and has no shame
for what it needs
and what it has to give

so what if the truth
never was perfection
only reflection
for the unaligned
reaching like those
nectared mouths
trying to evolve
enough
to taste the light

and sinking is the aftermath
of the climaxes of flight

and impotence
where the cripple learns
that living takes half the measure
of its steps
in dream

God isn't dead
but maybe love has died

wilted and abstaining
to find its ideality
crossing itself to stop
the opening to the rain
where the bruising of the petals
nourishes the roots

and the world dries up
for the burden of its shame
while the universe
is raging on
no matter how crooked the sun
or straight
the rain

where the copulation
of Chaos and Unkown
is where love's conceived
again