He mowed in concentrics,
around trunk and root-breach
shortcutting maps between oak and maple
Divining their underworld embraces,
their creeping dark twining
their blind empire of sod and worm.
This street of illuminated doors,
all toothless maw for the nightbugs
and their unfightable urge,
Becomes a beacon of premade grandeur
Our bling of defiance to all the darkness
and its stormier gods,
A taming fence for our fears.
And over this night
the tomorrow-bound souls
soar with their contrail agendas,
while our own vapourous plans,
fragile with possibility,
await the interior to shy out and speak.
A decaying fingermap on a breath-cold glass.
The silver and the tarnish
Equal brittalities to adore,
One as to the other
as the mirror to the question:
are your words just courage
and why is it always the sun
that makes the shadow?