There's a gyre you create
in the center of the viscous river;
tulips, twigs, and toads
are drawn in from the banks.
You bob by the water's edge.
Your phlegm-colored skin
catches the sunlight nudging in
from between the sycamore trees.
You pour a cup
of ayahuasca tea,
add a sprig of rosemary,
and put another behind your ear.
You ask me to drink.
That's no imposition.
Now, the trees position
themselves so I see Heaven.
