You have taken the sleep from my eyes
And the comfort from my chest.

I have great pain, but there is no medicine.
You have taken the payment and fled,

A ruby-red dries
Crusting under your fingernails, as you do.

A blood-orange, peeled, bleeds bright
across the horizon, then slips silently
beneath a wave of ruddy light, so sanguine.

Night falls away to a golden glitter
spilling glimmering light above our heads;
a cricket stretches and moans a scratchy tune.  

We drink of this spilled juice,
wear the sparkles in our hair,  
and dance to the tiny violinist's song.

You were all the world to me in this scene.
You were a blood-orange bright.  
You were the sparkle of the night.

You were and are the cricket's song forever in my ears.

We could hack this beast to death
But then the carcass would rot and stink;
Better it would be to tame it
And teach it to be a sheep.

Just as "we make our beds and have to lie in them",
So do we choose our bedfellows.  The locale of the bed
We end up in should be presently considered.

"I am still listening" (not really, I only cued in on that phrase,
"Are you listening?")

Mama wants me to lodge something in my brain,
that much is clear.  But for the life of me, where would I put it?

If she only knew the vast Smithsonian within my head!
I always was a precocious child.

I stretch out my wing;  
The Pin you placed seems
to be holding.  Your Mercy
was the thing,
which held me aloft
until my heartbreak oft
had been forgotten,
until my diaphragmatic
flight had gotten
ground free.

It is often the only way to clear out non-transient thoughts.  
The eviction makes room for the fugacious pleasures of life.  
Not easily applied with ink to paper.