The night dances away the last of her brights and bitters, her whirling skirts the ever spreading dusk. She rises from the dashed dreams of sun and sky, lively and unreckoned. She spins and pauses, waiting to embrace us all. She is wrapped in clouds and grace, her flesh stippled with stars. She is the only brightness that finds me on this day of fierce myths and dull adulation. Her teeth mark as hers my lonely keening heart.
There are cats on the rooftop, rats a-scrambling through the tall trees. The crow and the dove both find their roosts, ignoring the pejoratives of bible stories. The ink seeps through all the broken places, weeds cracking the pavement, each misstep breaking some mother's back. Nursery rhymes and fairy stories, bones rattling in their restless graves. Some judgement waits in the wings, polishing those sharp unseen teeth like ash. Some darkness falls in with the shadows, awaiting its promised place.
Words are spent and eggs are hidden, every fresh god tangled in another's story, every saint an expedience of alibi. The priests and puppeteers nearly as busy as the chocolatiers, the ache towards salvation nearly as sharp as that ravished sweet tooth. The calendar shuffles its feet as the month marches on, the notation almost always mistook for the music, that scratching in the coffins almost always believed to be the song. Let the tombs stay sealed and the dead stay buried. Let the night dance on, her beauty spent on trifles of skin and bone.
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