Later,
there are tears,
a sorrow slender
as a bellflower at first,
and opening its slow & delicate way
to grief, fluent as the soul
falling toward you, wet
and gasping, an agony of willows,
late in August & hemlock,
tear strung, haunted,
in the deep blue scythe of hours
you carve out of our secret,

a totem fossil of wild horses,
abandoned & impaled upon a carousel,
that bear a garland of snapdragons
for reign and bridle,
as they open their tiny pink throats to the night,
the calyx trill of tree frogs,
with their penchant for silk
& pink ribbons, pigtails
& sequin dreams,

I am desolate now,
my body a bramble
tangled in its curfew of snow,
upon the window pane,
the incessant thump, thump
of these **** ivory moths,
on each wing, a word I speak in dream,
returns to me, cleft
of blue light, scissor in darkness,
fierce to extinguish the stars
with their vehement lash of wing
to glass, to glass,

your pain is my familiar,
my envy,
my assurance,
and I am calmed
solely with the lace of spanned hands
at the throats small and fluttered vessel,

come, to besiege
the innocence of Summers stray tears....