Immaculate Ruins
It begins with a stranger’s cautious agreement
to get lost for a while in the ruins of you, playing
sentinel from the love seat’s worn brown arms,
as breath leaves a kiss of steam on the window,
proof there’s something warm inside, unafraid
of dirty glass and its beautiful war on clean.
Remember, this memory will become a ghost
tucked into bed with a kiss and a prayer as
Mary’s nightlight’s three burning holes lets
immaculate be immaculate.
It’s the Kind of Darkness
some would die for
in the shadow of hope’s flickering promise
to bring them back for special occasions
like the body’s shadow puppet,
that fist of feathers praising the wrist’s
compulsive need to make angels in the snow,
drifting from shredded denim clouds
all liquored up on lightning’s lust
to make the body hairless, as
thunder’s leather bravado
chokes gently on its depth.
But, what about the kind of darkness
everyone loves the most,
hungry and hard as a chicken’s beak
pile driving seed to glory?
Being fed is one thing.
Fear is something else.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, North American Review and more. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, The Chiron Review, Nine Mile Magazine, and Heavy Feather Review. His book, “Waxing the Dents,” is from Brick Road Poetry Press.
Featured image: Old Market’s Window, Diego Torres Silvestre from Sao Paulo, Brazil, CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0, via Wikimedia Commons
