I can't turn around

The lights this
way sprinkle golden rivets
on my glass
and the yellow is like
fireflies that melt an
evening into day.

Naked faces haloed, a
breakfast of the carnal
feigns against pale light
gross in our simplicity

and all those songbirds
beg for an encore
beg for just one more glimpse

serenity at its height
sanctity in its veracity.
I am crushed
(a mood so becoming
to a maid in her
waking gown or her Sunday best).

11/26/2007

Posted on 11/26/2007
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