When she opens her legs, I see not only flesh and birth but prisms and sepulchres and the eyes of spiders and the eyes of God. Her legs are smooth and her sex shaven. On my belly with outstretched arms, I look inside of her and see the south coast of England, a pier with people enjoying the sunshine oblivious to the waves that rise higher each second. By day the air is hot and dry, but by night there are flashing lights and the smell of chips and love and kisses and the beach and so many shadows down streets with no names. Black tights, yeah? A short skirt and lips smeared with tomato ketchup, yeah? When she says yes, I tell her that from now on I want to come inside of her every day because she does something to me I can’t describe, and such an act might help me to reclaim my mind. I’m not sure it does, but when I place my hands on her delicate face, I feel only angels and sense only grace. She is a pyramid. She is a black star that orbits Planet Nine. She is a feeling and a memory and a premonition all in one.