5 Strings, 7 Suns

Five Strings, Seven Suns

I used to believe in dangling marionettes
Limbs expressive in limp dispair
Bright colors falsifying eye’s light, expansive expression
Sweet small hands, tangled strings

(“But Father,
I have made it dance.”)

A poppet. A swaying waltz.

Days darkling now, upon these lessening books
And my fingers dangle thusly
Charcoal smear on an eyelid singed shut
Words that know suppression’s convenience
Strange fantastical displays - evasions on tea cups

(And yet you drink wetness)

There is no midpoint here - no signal
No speck marking the halfway
We reminisce easiest divisions: markings of thread
Sylph’s thin grace to slide
Away or nearer to some judgement { spatially }

In this, All are Declined

Helios, Phoebus, Apollo, Hyperion, command these lines
Curves, caught behind ourselves - de-emphasized
Morning’s soft granite walks - each step behooving,

Only light creates shadow.

The portrait’s dark-half insinuates madness or grief
Are we to claim both?

Luna, Diana, Phoebe, Selene, silver-footed slightest queen

My friends dream through walls.

Hush, for these are your crucifix headlights
Showing us these harsh strings
Are we dancing? Others watching this waltz
Of marionette sun. And poppet moon.