The sky is its thin, sepulchral hue.
Clouds slide out of the west like the high hull
of a Viking war boat. Her apparition crew
composing their crepuscular cull.

A husband and his second wife
abide the terms: a post-dinner
accord. Put away for cleansing the knives.
Lying in languid repose, prostrate sinners

massage the other’s foot sole
letting their febrile hands intone
nighttime’s somatic dirge.

Under celestial scree, neighbors convene
and lovers unsheathe their transgressing trowels.
Brothers put down their gloves; abandon ballet’s foul
aspersion, to listen as their sisters caress the keys.

The lush soft music reverberates in her feet
and, faintly, an ancient hymn down the street.

Alone in an oak tree’s solemn nave
a young girl sings an elegy for solitude.
Deeply moved, the trees sway their skeletal promenade,
unrequited, unseen by the bereaved, gibbous moon.

Do not cry, young girl.
The apricots are soon to bloom

and even death will raise its eyes to the beauty.