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Coated in the sundry wave,
Melancholic to the trumpet's
swear,
A warp divulges the pivot square
and a fresh glove presses down
the seam
before it is handed over.
So much of this old glory presides in the dyeing of
it,
the red spackled arch under a burning hue of blue,
remembered when
the wrong shadows cross the bedroom;
though it doesn't move anymore from its
shelter
once it reached the trunk by the door
Only glimpses are taken
and the cavern closed.
The heat shuffles between the drapes
and we are in
morning
Playing under a handful of clouds,
sprinkling streams of
water
that ignite the sunlight like a flame
She looks out
to the reddened earth and up
with a nod
to the sky
and awaits the calm beckon of stars
from the encroaching
night
to surround us in a cloak of shadow.
