a red moon crusts on a right

hand--pulled from blankets

that shift into folds.

spread cleaner than the Face

of these.

all the matter kept, a

tutelage of flocking

black birds closing their

schoolbook.

a soundless penmanship

of two withheld bodies.

words are very difficult

when they come alive in

proximity.

serpents trade bedsides

in deep sleep.

their waking eight coincides with

the slowest fathom--dousing the

legend of a heart.

it's so strange when it follows you

around.

a pumpkin's seedless jigsaw

grin, flush with dead centers.

bearing the mind of a votive candle's

puddled wax, secretive globules.

posing as if for

retro mall photography--whose

backdrop's bruising mesh is

worked-in.

similar to a penitent scrubbing

away nightly stains--with nubs

where hands were.

as streets sleepwalk in reverse,

there's a sensation of standing

backward on an upward escalator.

nothing gives, because it doesn't

want to--night won't let go.

the wind picks up & finds a thorn

whistling at your side.

there's home to get to, where you

wish the lights were on when you

look up.

the windows remain dark.

an eighteen note vantablack

Victorian music box

welled up from the rings of

a tree stump.

far afield.

a little girl's hand reached

out & wound it.

to dissever music from rain--

where she withdrew into

the sheets that came down.

feeling through her throat...

a lifelong mute made in a

moment.

the eighteenth note coming

to rest.