I can hear in you the hum of
electric lights –
papery-wasted skin,
hair, a chemical crimson waste of color.
The hue of whorish lips, a monstrous, bloody smile.
I feel in you something immovable
like ghost-town concrete,
abandoned strip malls and
the frightful vacancy of a bleary-eyed sky.
I can taste in you the sadness of cold and muffled stars
a Spring of standing water, infested with guilt and darkened
by summerless shadows.
Child, you are no broken light,
once bright like the falling Niagara,
sunny and vivid, self-fulfilling and strong
you fell with a woman’s grace, so gracefully
did you wither –
What awaits you now but your coming resurrection?
