sorrow is a handful of dust
without words, it is simple
and plain to a fault

and what difference a few birds like a few words are all that’s left
of blue stars whose laughter is scarlet chopsticks

blue stars with yellow brains of dust of the green of dusk
like used car lots in the month of may

the dizziness of daisies setting fire
to gravity

the simple feet of dusk
are a fever
and forever

it is the brighter darkness that does not need the rhetoric of flames

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s