Heavy Honey

On the stoop, all my rage fails and the sun does sun-things
inna caldera of up above- 
Burgeoning with blissful thorns of sleep… keeping to the verge of a calm, 
Swinging in a hammock-
Of frustrated charms and dozy nostalgias. 
Foaming at the mouth 
As your dimples glisten
Ironically-

And your portrait looks nothing like you.

It’s a Season of superfluous insomnia, 
and jaunty bouts of half-naps’
That dream fiercely. I sink above things; 
With stone clouds-
Ever so faintly in my arabesque-  
repose.
Floating in heavy honey…  
I suppose.