The moon surges and falls, plucks
The tide with velvet fingers
For eternity, and yet the flaxen sand twists
Within its glass cage. The hourglass
swells with corpses. The silken
violin’s lullaby titillates, floods
The feverish air. The devilish moon
Overindulging the flowers, these fainting virgins—
Silver ink creeping across the lacy hem
Of satin petals like frost. Between the cracks
Of history, these blotting villages scatter.
The faces and limbs sweep past
As the grass rustles with the murmurs
Of quivering phantoms.
The frothy shell of the ocean whispers
Cerulean, moans like the icker
Of a candle, suffocating with time.
