Photography: Kylli Sparre
The night descends
like a chorus of black birds-
Their throats silk
of velvet
and fever
of silver and murmurings.
The night seeds
burning tar streaks
on your hand.
What shadows clamor
is sulfur, melting language
to blood-red liquid
Here, then, is the night,
its skin
stripped bare,
on your palm, blue flame.
Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Inspired by David Huerta's Fruit as translated by Mark Schafer & Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~
