Decrescence

The Queen sits on a throne

of gem-trimmed robes.

Between her robes

the jutted moth, it follows

dust. She can’t rest before

the funeral, her self-

unmaking, some maid

whose hair is browned

by blood; a matching

queen. Nights’ dim candles,

grackles’ glib decrescence.

Now dance, now weep.

No rest for feet still

warm from summer’s

phrasing — odors / ankle

/ thorn. Keeping time

while dying, the Queen grows

bored, her hand’s throat

out, amiss. (Yet I sob,

I paw. Yet) I kiss.