I work backwards
Trying to refine the confection of this day to the next.
Measuring each mote in dribs and drafts
Texturing silences with pauses and sighs
Or wringing each towel sopped with stale dregs
Dry, hanging across the scattered lines
Of words plagiarized from some old thesaurus
Now the day pours forth like honey,
Liquid amber clasping the emotions to its sticky breast.
What bee will boast of this light sweetness?
Not I, waspish and thorny,
A rose pierced to the heart with its own sword.
I relinquish the darkness that one hour holds
And cling to the ever present sunset