Evensong
They say eyes are
a memoir, stories stolen from memory
that may or may not exist—but either way
iris plays storyteller.
At the bottom of my glass,
a pair of ocean eyes in brandy—
searches for an identity.
Nothing
but a blurred face with no features
—perhaps no stories ever lived to be stolen
though the shape of shadowy tears
are oddly clear—they consume the least amount of light
then drool them out, uneven,
like trembling breaths of an old firefly—
Brings my mind to this
long summer, air reeks of damp, molded plums
even in a marble kitchen: always rancid,
though pores exhale wispy musk and oak—
A scent fitting
for a firefly reaching for summer’s tail,
behind it death’s haggard palm.
His voice sibilant, mocking
its effort: as when summer ends
life ends shortly after.
Pupils follow the wavering ghost of firefly—
stars grayish azure, grasping anything gravity can pull
to keep a lone soul companied down the road:
My friend, come along,
there’s no need to fight tomorrow.
But physics means nothing to the candlelight midair.
Weary as it is—
summer will die chasing summer.
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