The potion queen is vapor, unquenchable, emergent in absence against the roseate dawn, resurrecting from the paucity, torrentially abounding. She burnishes her prized vocations, fashions the ice crystals into semblances, talismans, crescents, amidst the idols of speaking tides, the obsessive beasts eulogize, pearls command the sky in hushes, the blush unceasing, she, numb in her construct, frosted, replete, inhabiting dreams.

As the hours pull, she occupies the sun, draws on idlers, thrusts upon the radiant seaside, conjuring her mixtures, obstinately allegiant, becoming the concoctions, transcending the blighting sour lemonade, penetrating the swarthy citrus punch, brewing sprightly tea infused with Him, in herbaceous perfection, achieving topaz apple cider bliss that glints and drizzles like liquid amber, blending creamy peach healers, coconut slushees compacted with flesh, pulpy, verdant blood orange spritzers, life-giving mineral waters, a deliverance that bequeaths.

This fateful fruit ordeal, a sand trail ever fungible, called to reconcile the syrupy baubles—resplendent pineapple geodes, gelatinous berries, stout cherry marbles, champagne grape diamonds that mottle, perspire, and billow in sultry delirium. It is exceedingly beyond her to oblige, above karma to partake.

The guests visit in flocks. They carry tarpaulin bags, wear prophetic sandals and ambrosial lotion, assembling stretchy queues that coil past the ramshackle barbeque hut, swept by the smoky meat, sailing through esculent bubbles in a turmeric-oregano fantasy. She inhales, beside herself to see them huddled in their tropic defenses.

She steps into the vacillating spirit of that flaring omnipotent star, the spicy zing of the appetent people, the intrepid pith of the magnanimous cosmos, undulating, the endless negotiation of the circling itinerary, pardoning hapless prospects to nirvana, losing sight of barren rewards, encapsulating her subjects in fluent, frigid, wispy sprays.

Her utmost dedicated patron is a statuesque man whom sometimes she sees ascending, etching starry watermelon houses in the darkness over pale beech trees. The seeds disintegrate, trickling down, stilly and objectively, much as he likewise receives her, her concentrations, her milk inveigled via his deific charge.

He is steady and unchanging as she gloats on about how much she savors her occupation, making the ice, in the blooms, through the nails, enticing her to expand her confessions, inviting her to carefully disassemble the primal mold. Reveal your subaqueous bemusements, Orion! His magnetic eyes yearn to grind through her solid form, to carry the burden, the vision of being one together below as the aurora harbors, carving and shaping and sculpting the glacial currency.

And through the cloudless salt-seeped heavens, interpretations of his cold hands on top of hers create shades of white light, discharging palmy momentum as the task at once begins, fracturing the bulbous mounds, reforming the gaping schisms, skating upon plunging rivers, remotely, in the vanishing immensity as he, and she, shave and crush and cut it, chipping away, the body breaking into cubes and rings.