The Stories We Make

Of angels and Mensch, as sun rose
to brighten the light-forgotten turf,
to culminate our waking, our breach from that
darker day. Where a woman in a red
hood stood by each streetlamp and she lit its
hue, and where a man in all black
locked the back door to a theater’s pews.
As acts had ended for the night and we put
on faces of glamour and homeless light,
dancing on rivers of pavement low,
and peopling marble skins with
a dandelion row. Sun’s bearing tow, a
brandished flaming soul, that butchered
the stone and forced masks of shade to
be cast, eyes that acted to still and
words that borrowed sublime. Only nighthood
dared our cracks, our untenable gray stony
flow, combed black in knots of weeds, layered as
covering dusts from a second snow’s final wheeze.

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