glitter like a psalm where it hurts

storming the barn with our Satchmo fire
our bandy arms, flailing in the avalanche 
of our charming resurrections
like a boil on a petal
made of human hearts
with beyond classified
trajectories.

I remember our quarrel.
it had chambers with secret stars
and the narrows of a false start
for a Matador on a peach 
when the southern exposure 
was due North of our plausible
anguish.
 
glitter like a psalm where it hurts.
 
beautifully foolish.