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.