On a Bowl of Knives

Small words craft a spell

for honey-scented light;

a white sail flung to earth

makes a river of cold and diamonds,

makes blood shiver.

This is an old string

undone, useful as a lie

to the dreaming,

sleeping like water in the veins,

used to the hunger

of the unfed.

Taste is the shape of lovers’ hands,

the arched sky, a bowl of knives,

that tame bird in blue—

your name is

the squall and surrender

of things to come.

Night is for never,

bloodshot hours and the must of books,

breath of moth-winged longing.

Pack your things:

strike out before light.