swirl the moonlight in your wine glass,
and tell me if it’s as bitter as it looks –
with y/our honeyed shadow opting to
be amorphous tonight, there is a certain
kind of looming upon us. time manifests
itself before us and sits at the dinner table,
and we both tremble like we heard the
dying calls of blackbirds on a night that
was meant to be auspicious. tell me love,
since you’re fluent in fear, what will come
of us? are we nuclear weapons waxing poetic
while we gloss over the imminent threat of
mutually assured destruction? or are we
dewdrops that collect in spring mornings,
nudging the long dormant back to life?
taking turns nibbling on the marrow
of the night sky and its constellations
to abate our true hunger, we resign
to our fate like ortolans.
