Dressed as a Plague Doctor—
black off blue
and black on again.
intake of breath,
I know this troubling red.
Oliver, this is something I cannot deny.
I am a dying star, she says
But here, right in front of me,
she bleeds her own song—
one that starts and ends
all my madness
Under the moon—
the cure for her restless mind.
Silver forward, silver back.
for this fire—
for it is terribly misplaced.
a wild red
in my drowning third days
of only my mind tangling
If you let me, I’d like to clutch your forty-five pearls.
A flawed, blinding foreignness
and if it’s possible—
the descendant of Emily Dickinson.
In the entrails of the Aokigahara forest,
Death is not a forty-five letter word
and I can’t find the extra birthday candles
because they don’t exist.
Bright, for all tastes
his interpretation is misunderstood
A brutal red why
Then again, this is all too easy
God has damned this prospect
and I am so dangerously accustomed to
deterring all others
This is one too many rolls of double-sided tape
This fire is not light
If it consumes you, is it not real?
And I made the wrong bet