December 2, 2019

• silver

  

   

  every day before the world falls apart,
  before the flood of thought begins,
  before the last star leaves the morning twilight,

  the moon turns back to the pond
  for one last look at herself in the mirror,
  an adamantine queen on a throne of silver

  where half of every tree is shadow.

  in the stillness of a frozen star you say
  my name three times, the third time softly;

  the floor, the walls, the ceiling
  all silver-plated now,
  as your deliberate movements

  rip my breath to rags

   

  • 5:57 am
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