summer, pilgrimage of the ewe; the blood sun breaks upon death—
is the symmetry of the flower where an ocean throws the moon’s noose,
leaving to the knot of a darker azure? dream, and you might
too leave in the white rose of lips; sewn a monolith
exchanging, in perfidy, a child at the river
its maddening leavetaking, tucked in the shawl, a fellness of
gold nursed at the fingertips dead and drowning,
for the illumine, like a dream, but it was no longer; memory was the
brass to the black heart of the rose, low-necked to mourn.
Written for the dVerse prompt today, using lines from Dorothy Lawrenson’s poem September. Truth be told, this is most likely one of my darkest poems, taking heavy inspiration from This Night Has Opened My Eyes by The Smiths.