I

A midnight sunflower,
her pale fingers holding dust,
and the blue cast of moonlight pulling out a green crust
on the edges of petals that speak like a stone
to a lock that’s so broken, it speaks to dead bones

And a bent silver crescent with a halo of rust
and the last tin-string songs of a memory’s dust

and one more smolten sunset then the end of a sound..
The cold city glitter thrown, a gold quilt over town.

like a dappled tree-shadow, how we fill in the ground
how we’re vapor on hooks til we seep into sound.
How we wear our old heartbreaks like little glass crowns.

And the ways that we wilt.
How we dance til we drown.

How our souls live on stilts
And our spines are hardbound.

How the end of the night
makes a bright
and pink sound.