In literary theory, the chronotope is how a moment in time and space collide through language.

the primal lunar love

scraped by a star,
he arches his back and howls.
“dear moon”—I genuflect—
“shower me in your tranquility
and I will gift the world your mystery.”


coaxing delicate thoughts from womb
to heart, the quixotics are abundant in our home,
and I am drunk for the antidote
behind luminary curtain of your love.


spinning in golden spirals are sunbeams
that hit your eyes in most secret colors,
like the shimmer of wolf’s fur in highest dusk
and our nighttime desires unsheath,
wavering in grassy oceans left tangled by pleasure

the waxing bodies are subject to our whim,
and by dewy pearly glowing heaven ascending.
can I ever see your body glow infinitely,
hailing from the sunset like the fawning cherry blossom
in our own private dawn?

Anything

Existence As Revolutionary Praxis