Indulgent confections with dwindling miserliness —

The dead whisper homilies, falsities, word upon word,

A thimble of syllables can be sewn into a cry, a story, a lie,

Observe this, a tableau  unbalanced,  uncoveted, like a bruise.

The sun bends in its idyllic arc —  no rush, except to change the light skinned and hearted,  the unguarded, to a different shade of pale.

Love is that eventual thing that’s oft defined by numbers —

Stay for a lightning strike, a love’s dissonance too bright to refuse.

Satire flatters, by omission - brightens, like a winter sunrise, without feeling the frost below.

Another night, another room with a new car outside, cooling, familiar body, inside glistening, tiring.