I propose a toast
to a honeycombed crux
charred black
it wanes but it's no moon.

Molasses streaks the sky
disguised as light
it will not calm the alabaster globes
bobbing in the icebox of her gut.

Stolen
she wanders ghostlike and barren
expectant for the cuckoo's cry
consent to come
unhinged.

An overture in reds and golds -
hardly untruth
the hues bury shame:
eggshell-white and stuffed full of monsters.

Take heed
and never trust the oleander
the fox-eyed traitors
of the flower patch.