What’s red and black and dead all over?
The clicking of the sun
until it’s almost done
says the screaming in the night
only follows what felt right.
The crying from the loon
draws up the bloated moon
from searing light to coldest night
and dictates what can’t feel right.
Betraying the imperfection
underlying the red infection,
the legacy becomes undone
in the death throes of the sun.
Icy nothings are left to grind
to compensate what’s left behind.
Nothing left to be, nothing still to groom.
How did it get so late so soon?
Form: Lesbian almost-slam? Freestyle, sure.