by Gone the Sun
Marry me
The Wind says
Have my baby.
Unfold me.
Love my transience, my
Cold intemperate fingers
Brushing aside the earth's
Debris, swirling evanescent
Crumbs upon your table.
Empty your fertile seed into
me that I can caress it
growing in me. My children
cast upon soil as dandelion
seeds, growing within sight
but without touch. Tears run
as mist on a autumn window.
Fill me up, make
me whole again.