Poem: Last Dawn

 

Last Dawn

 

ebb of mango

over half moon

as a man between dusty walls

reclines the same way,

bedsheets rife with

twisty blooms,

while his clocks point

to coming hells

and unseen constellations. 

towers of plates,

stoic in the kitchen,

dwell too long there,

except they are. 

in the sink

a bristle of effete bones,

half with flesh,

a carving knife stuck through.

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11/17 .. removed "to be" after "dwell to long"