Comb the turbulences with your fingers,
in the stillness of your touches
in the calmness of your caresses!
to your climax.
Erupt in your dehiscence
on the ceiling
of your shrine,
your sequestered Sistine Chapel,
in the hues you’ve brimmed
in the haves
of your eternal garden.
Renaissance is interminably there
looking at us
in a sturdy stare
like shivering smudge of moon
amidst the floating itinerant waves