10.16.17

In the pallid ash of bones
we find proof of the fires
that burned them.
Steady grasp
steady night.
Bleed forward into light
as if the distance were a string
and you doll snagged onto it
hook, pull, defeat.
Steady night
steady hands.
Grasp at the frayed ends
of rags, as if time were cottonstrands
enmeshed in a festering wound
where the damage on the outside
had been done.
Steady hands
steady scream.
Be inducted into night
as if death were nothing
but a bride beside her father,
walking the aisle to exchange
hands.

Written at 9:32 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.