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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.
Copyright ©
Paige Hind
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