The ashes of night were drawing circles
this morning on the skin of sky,
in light speckles of cold, and of dust;
before, you’d grasped the golden dusk
in flowers wreathed in the tongues of the sun,
being dumbstruck by your own shadow. I saw;
you’d played dumb to the pale moon’s iris;
you played dumb, looked away,
played dum de dum, de dum, and during
this eclipse, ho hum, my fingers beat
the drum of my temple.
