Under Starlight We Played

The field was plain of finches’  plays,
God’s spread out night could not find
my stays.  My eyes tossed sable thorns
and blankets on stars that seem malleable
to my shade, my coy little novel pitched
lit fires of open light, against my empty
tarpen tent, bent against Orion’s haze.
As my light to excursion came, I warmed
my charcoal covered hands over the fire
and touched your throat with all hidden desire.
The chirpings ceased and sepulcher came, as
bones of rusted starlight were by open air gamed.

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