smakkabagms:

night’s dream stains a star-touched, blue feather
  near the silo of my gathered hand; her,

on the cloven hooves of dawn, ear stilled near
the pulsing raven plinth, neck or dandelion

howls rove the mist-thick woad, recalling
with the terror of flesh the wool of another

colors once loved, now colored dully elsewhere –
a poppy nodding a red-heavy head, lips languished

I pry mud-spangled fingertips over the indifferent
reign of tides, mimetic animals sloughing sideways where

night has emptied her entrails into the crook of my arm,
where I once held the sea, slipped from cerement’s scythe
                           
and moonborne dew; earthen, wax-drawn figure
I bring you to my hidden room and speak
this yellow nothing