There is no fierceness in sleep
No sign of passion
Just evidence of its bustling pass
Just two bodies interlocked
And away
The horizon’s flashing fastens tight,
sealing the blue hills with vermilion.
Moss dyes a squirrel’s skull green.
The cemetery expands its borders—
little milky crosses grow like teeth.
How kind time is, altering space
so nothing stays wrong; and light,
more new light, always arrives
-SPENCER REECE9
