The peacock,
the small babe
wrapped in the hands
of the clock in his sky
or the cellos folded
in the lattice of glass,
in-swept by a few bars
of music. I am forgetting
where to start. The light
cast over their shoulders
made them bolder. Silhouettes
are silent but so are many
chambers. A purple dove
lording over—over
her body, and hers,
the ones who stood near me,
a peacoat and hoodie,
regarding the same man
fall to the city.
Burlesque Press 