who are we to drop
into reflections?
we are masks of nacreous grey:
we bloom only at night and our
memories exist only in the
pallid crescents of our eyes.
and our eyes! the colors of
spring and summer.
we are dancing on asphalt.
you touch me; like an
apostrophe.
[you are opium and sugar-blight]
but who are we to open our weary
palms to the shivering sky
and the rain?
because scarlet chasms open in our chests
where our looping bones hold
us prisoner.
