cradled by shadow offspring
of mother dark (ginger-spiced dark
chocolate drizzled over two pints of
bourbon and vanilla bean iced dream),
we would scare death out of oatmeal villagers
wary of salt and sugar.
Better we serve each other private bowls
or be charged with indecency (flashing our
live graffiti near too many
of their dead slate walls).
Instead, we’ll fling invisible color bombs
all over their curtains, blinds, and ceiling fans;
leaving behind hue stained sheets
and towels strewn about their
previously unloved bedrooms and showers.
And we’ll sign our names across the
smoke cloud cover of this gray horizon
with the burning ends of candied cigarettes
in shapes and languages only we
can see and understand.
Some art can’t be shared in the same air
blowing storms of guilt and shame
with terrible eyes and tongues of watchful judgment
behind lying gates of pearly whites.
I’d rather weather the kissed wind
carrying parcels wrapped and delivered by name.
Let us stay here in this cellar
where we can age without incident and
throw mirror discs at the blizzards and cold fronts
we won’t feel beneath this blanket
of heart-shaped privacy.