Behind flickered facades,
Fingers of guitars bring shadows to the corners of flame-painted rooms.
Dry flowers embalm the lemon of fall
In torch-light of a full moon.
A black horse comes up an empty street.
Old light bleeds in mercury from a distant wail of stars,
And a dance of voices circles your inlaid neck in a dust of fire.
Calendars expire.
A rich patina of youth ends.
Everywhere, night mounts its yellow assault.