The Already-Blast Swastika in Nightshade

I made a bima in the nightshade hammock,
equestrian nightshade,
the misfit-bite with cruel
nightshade-looks deceiving me, beating me
with the sticks of nights, nightsticks
of shade and wonderment.
Frisk me with the night,
epinephrine buff of magic on my half-chest.
It's moving
into tufts of mammal-touches.
The tides
that I swam against were heaved up into huge piles
of branches. When I think of them I think of the world
as diamonds.
My heart leaves me for you, a gesture
that someone figured was home.
Twelve movements
towards something amounts to a peripheral move
towards making something stay.