Placed Saucer

Breaking through day, the last night, where the mirror on glass lips posed for a new moon, that only masked its face in ebony brims of space trapping in my ache, with cedar pandoras making the bleakest of songs; a viridescent heart— under sylvan skin; back to sun's cloned moon; her moody phases cut you, while salt gives the macadam a required taste— alone, with an empiricism of waste; but in a candle's whiffs, the flames— round and round in my head— afer an evening's quivering prayers, fixated on poppies in morning— breaking through day.