Days bleed, and when the stars appear, they grieve.
Endless banter, gone with morning sunlight --
I've learned to cover memory unto shirtsleeve.
Fairy dust on wooden floorboards, aimless,
sits at the edge of my shadow, challenging my wholeness.
picked apart by the pieces of us. I thought
the light and stucco alone is enough,
but through the looking glass I see bodies,
a barrel of bruised pears, pried through the sniper-
moon, sending apologies to the sky.
The stars had never willed to be there.
Can you separate fiction from gospel?
A red-winged bird has sunk into the ceiling.
A firing squad would at least be quick.