Morning Glory

the marquee moon
wades in the umbra of her
own twilight garden, alone
in the crepuscule of star eyes
dancing in the moonlight
                                                        massaging
the dream montage of her ebony azure
in a borrowed New York
state of mind, in which she
fell out of the sky–with eyes
that sparkle the size
of Texas & lips sweet as
a honeysuckle rose
                                     (filling
every honey bee
with jealousy)–wearing
polka dots & moonbeams, driving me
                 to dream of nothing but the story
of her morning glory shining on me.