Published by The Seventh Quarry magazine (January 2010)
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Aisle lanterns glow like fireflies.
The world is her oyster,
she swallows it whole.
The sun scrambles below the skyline into mauve
as she places a finger on her lips to no one,
guttural, yellow-throated bird,
inhaling incense and impending rain.
A palate of spice erupts in song
to the wild applause of a butterfly
incessantly dying against the pane.
A fledgling season will come on, it comes on
over the scorched garden, waltzing
down the carpet, rolling itself out,
après l’amour, le repentir
without repentance.
The sky pales hot with embarrassment
gathers it’s mille feuille skirts in frothy puce
and scratches gold into the firmament.
Translucent fairies
choose their steps toward her,
as pinpricks appear in the sands.
In sleep she sees machines
munching reams, spewing headlines
already:
Edith Piaf collapses on stage!
(fallen petals drip rain-drops).
