frail light of interval.
strewn shoes mark the pathway,
so many self-conscious Cinderellas
above the running music.
she left behind in broken day
the pearl grey heel
of a glassy eye, as though sick
of the day itself,
of the breath of an unspilt sky,
wound in an indecision
of ballgowns, cinematic images
of loaded midnight, gun-
fire grey around
his crowded head.
This night, full fallen fire,
in black and curling radiant, I
the body’s under line, fluid wing
of force, opposed to it-
self, in spaceless caves, to where
desire for speechless
space, upright and fallen, climbs
an inner river of no-air
to dart and dwell
in cheekbones’ eave
like swallow, tips of breathwing
dipping throat.
