By the time the sun’s rays would hit the pavement
to a shallow cemetery nearby, all of the flowers will wilt
and hide: the sunflower bed running in the meadows

of jade plastered glass are shattering like banged windshield.

(crystal ember paradise rises only after hours;
when the sheets are crumbled like love

notes hidden in the pocket and was never
given.)

Yesterday was oil. Today is rust. Tomorrow is ash.

(every day is a bullet strike though
the numb glass torso—

            bleeding insides to prove
            that God is dead
                        to prove existence lives
            on a ****** paper—a home.)

crimson locket hides under her breast
like past dusk sun, hiding in the bellows
                        of the hills.

*(we are always
                                    a                      misconception.)