winding itself down a dark alleyway
when dusk was most dusk and threatening
day with never returning.
A poem becoming the most subtle mother,
the sweetest and meanest keeper of bones,
and breaker of them.
A poem to be a hospital, in all it means
to recuperate the weary, to medicate a malady
out of a lime body, out of blue veins.
When this poem finally utters its name,
flames also utter theirs, a copper pot
boils over with froth, it steams,
a sputter shivers and draws a blank,
a blanket won’t do for cover.
When this poems says yes, a thousand
yeses dress themselves for a fête
and dance with no nos no matter
how well they play the coquet.
