shaking in the dark
cold the way death is cold
lighting little fires and blowing them out
smoke fills the room
The dagger and candle are here somewhere
but I can’t find them
All of it—the sun’s bloody death overhead
the wild dancers
trampling fields at harvest
the night with its promise of ecstasy
This is love in the time of psychosis
all that I ever asked for given
full of waning moonlight
How could I have known?
What have you been reading lately?