Is it like Saturn's rings
to yawn and sag?
Or to brighten
and bid the orb goodbye?

This feathery thing is dusty.
Speckled with painted faith
that bids its hinges to stay.

This room deafens
the ******'s orange blades.
These walls hinder
the white mantle rose.

Shreds of glass preserved
for a moment that is dead
lean against the moon
and wonder how they live.

Dried fruit kiss her feet,
air passes like a violin
and mirrors fragment this moment
like a shotgun lullaby.