Dusk seeps cold pink
into the sky's still tub;
from under floating, wet-dark hair—
cut to the jaw line—
a slice of the moon's young cheek
glistens like a false, new coin
tossed in at the near edge
of an unexpectedly
beautiful wishing pool.
From the east, night's dark sheet
pulls up over the cadaver of stratus
which bleeds, ridge upon ridge,
into the gun-metal gray bucket
at its marine layer covered head.
Dissembling death, the embalmer's pink
fluid perpetuates the same cold blush
on evening's complexion all week long.
These bare days are so young
already they roll up their sleeves
waiting for night. The tattoo blazoned
on this one's deltoid swears
LOVE HURTS, a bright star scarring
evening's smooth, blue shoulder.
She flaunts the fine, white curve of her
firm, un-tanned ass, nonchalantly
exposed by her cut-off denim shorts before
she turns and watches him walk away.
the pewter clouds press down
the spent December light
are unexceptional as it fails
us imperceptibly malleable
enough following routine
opposite against a great dark
open wall a desolate face
looks up not seeing unnoticed
impenetrable with inertia
this is her only home
the concrete bed and mute walls
except for the guilty charity
of a little mumbled graffiti
where else can she go? tomorrow
she'll be here again
and there not far behind
dragging their lead shoes
everywhere thousands more
No dreams rise
into this day's
twilight sky—no moon
No snow ever
falls. Unlike O'Keefe's
white skull or Rousseau's
light dies here
past the palm frond tops;
no limpid aspirations
suffuse this pallid
only one or two
On the evening news, they announced a lunar eclipse in progress. I didn't watch it.
The hard, entropic palate of voracious night widens overhead;
the black teeth of cypress, palm, orange and jacaranda bare skyward
ready to grind the tender, peach flesh of sunset back into darkness—
but slowly, savoring the taste on the sweet spot at the tongue's tip,
before washing it all down, shamelessly, with a little cold star shine.
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.