The script was written on fire; it was an evening of celebration. We arrived at the stone arbor and planted our roses in wet concrete. We inked our verse into softened porcelain. I displayed my larynx in panes of glass, and Sonia told one of her lively tales. The annelids rise with the sun, like a metal fabricator seals the hour with sparks. A string of tin beads. The droning church organ the children can't hear. The Chickadee warming herself in hair clippings and landscaper's fabric. The snaps of the August corn and nightshade. The fire that first refuses. And at sunset, we siphon the tea into its porcelain amphora. We dust its surface with gold leaf and pour it over glassine to soften. Is it my breath or a ghost crying the true blackness of a lunar eclipse? How far must I follow this delicate thread through the dark? |
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