Poem: Sins

 

Sins

 

anemone tentacles

on the throat of a dove,

or threads unwinding

from a beggar’s coat,

 

they barely bind,

hints of jail cells or guilt,

a trace that won’t sleep.

adulterous silence.

 

they chant, soft as dew,

patterns in clammy octaves,

when it’s dark enough,

wards of skeleton keys.

 

an armoire opens.  who guessed?

grandparents pine there,

frowns that turn thumbscrews.

hands secretive as moths.

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9/5/24 .... changed a word