the ghost of fireflies
froth from the fractured minds
of the thistles
the burning breeze
flakes the fields
the ones
who hollow you out
leave a cave
for another
to place
a candle in
curtains wait for a breeze
so they can breathe again
bells hold onto
all the peals struck
from the dark
of their bodies
a forever home for shadows
hung in the wind
that whips whispers
from their stillness
you’re the last light of the year
the late light of the day
that touches the old fire
that still clings to the tips of the trees
in my haunted park
stilled by all the sunlight
held in your skin
you’re the leaves that foxtrot
with the tatters of a plastic bag
in the blustery corner of my deserted courtyard
become young again
twirled by the world-weary wind
that still remembers how to dance
silver poplars shiver
with the echo of light
wind gathers in the trees
stars born
from the sparks
of figure skaters
figure eighting
upon the dark ice
of deep space
glass the gatekeeper
asks the sky
if they’re on the list
I like how the last of the light
lingers in the tree outside my window
clings to all its small leaves
clinging to the branches
I don’t think about the thorns
I think about the blackberries
of your love
how they reveal the labyrinths
of my fingerprints
that touches the dark
trying to find your face
you’re the drafts of dusk
that sifts the rusty rafters
songlines become sighlines
my heart
more cave and cavity now
waiting for the collapse