Some night you will find me,
under the stars
my hands clutched - claw like
palms pooled with rubies.
Clever corbeau, my eyes will say,
this was the only treasure I had left.
You need not scavenge what was given freely -
plucked out to guard against your breast.
Though not an unkindness,
you and I, are murderers by nature
of the kindest sort.
A flock not of angels,
or carrion crows,
but here still, there are feathers -
brushed over my skin,
and a crush of velvet blackness
to find my hand in the dark.
-For J
