Night sneaks in like a lover’s whisper: breathless, untrue, close.
You wait at an unlatched window, conjure doors to close.
I can live with lies—they’re how we learn to love ourselves.
When you’ve broken a glass, I know. Keep a broom close.
Recall an unpinned night when stars refused to move?
The only way to find us was a scatter of strewn clothes.
I want to rescue the crippled gull, dangle-legged dancer.
Like you, it edges away, then flies when I get too close.
When I die, scatter my ashes in Algonquin—McIntosh
Lake—where loon, moose, stars come canoe-close.
If heaven leaks light, and trees are crooked truths,
I choose the only place where forbidden fruit’s close.
Don’t tell beloved about lonely gods sobbing in your arms.
Keep the divine unreachable; just you lying, you, close.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.
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