Absence falters, squeezes
on a warm, autumnal evening.
You describe potential as a concrete flower
in this city. I disagree, and search
for a hybrid mercy
Lost in words and notes
and a sense of previous anger
welling up from years of cold repression,
a finality to all of this:
Sunrise is for the tainted yet holy.
Grace and desire are fickle partners
where I am worlds apart
from either kind.
Speak of brilliance found only in an opal,
all five senses attuned within a galaxy
of broken bones, the old-woman smile
I find in dusty novels that I read
when all else comes