James Michael Brock wrote "The Drunken Comet",
from which I take a few lines, with some modifications:


 Celestial Bodies



 I was in Stanford,
 California, with my lover, in
 perfect December-cold air.  She
 breathed like a black hole, her
 inhalations pulling my 
 body light-years into hers.  The stars 
 became a sheet of light, illuminating
 like the sun, blinding.  Time 
 swirled around us for either 
 minutes or eons, as we ascended
 to expel supernovas.  The shine of
 her bare legs, thighs quivering, became
 deeper than mechanics and more pervasive
 than plasma; strangely Taoist.

 Only later, she would spit me out, condensed 
 and sudden.  Her little-explored 
 center was not accustomed to menaces
 of getting a good fuck, and 
 "Fucking gays!"

 *           *            *
 
 A comet trails
 stars, highlighting
 a numb matrix of
 letters and numbers.  In
 some eyes, we failed to
 achieve any magnitude; the insistence
 of sectarians surrounding us with
 their stepladders of importance.  
 But the brilliance of our fusion
 shone as well as any young star, which
 revealed in its destruction the most 
 simple elements.



     --jennifer crystal chien