And you are full
of winking.

A convex ceiling
blistered. Riddled.

Some call you god
and light the flames

            of their throats.

Men sigh
their little clouds.

Hours of last requests.

The moon throws shade
over the vacant

host and all
the romantical corpses,

            husks of clove and rot.

Wind burns its way
through the cracks.

You, the surround
and inbound:

            veins flowing
            into sky,

            sea falling
            into a mind of midnight.

Flox, acacia,
some pretty things

            blue-lipped,

that beat the right
side of your brow.