Sarah Wilson's blouses
and unmentionables
hang one-hundred feet
above the vacant stomachs of strays
who sniff suspicious puddles
of dumpster runoff
and rainwater

little broken suns
drip down brick mountains
beneath condemned fire escapes

it is dark with you
I squint to see supernovas
on yellow stumps

the wispy silver ripples
fall the wrong way
nothing is left but
tobacco exoskeletons

you brood against velvet arms
sinking into the chair
the stone in your chest is heavy;
immune to April plumage
spilled nectar
and the smells before rain

my shadow in  pursuit
an angelic silhouette
steadfast
but not synchronized
hiding by the penumbra
you are everything I once was
a hundredth of a second ago

soft white jewels
descend in slow motion
to the tip of my tongue
as the symphonies of winter
are orchestrated at the
hands of a heavenly composer
I bask
as my unwitting eyelashes
collect the notes