To A New Chandelier

Overnight color.
Overnight a white sky
blanking quartz speckles in the street.
But at least the citrus
        means too much to me,
Mildening the pinch of
                        water and rock
and paper
and scissors

where you always had plenty to say,
and the sunrise orange washed your lies of otherwise

where I should have
                  Realized
your butterflies were
            evanescent,
spluttering,
                      as you swept dust from my wings,
to splash and fry and electrify
in the acid of my mind.

And all I wanted was evaporation—
they could have fallen into my sweet pea hands after the day
or into a bed of soft
mushrooms:  What do you want most in the world?


As films of shed skin
trace their fingernails
along my heart,
and slurp the chemistry,
like lukewarm feeble spaces
or the skeletons of wings’ breadths,
What do I want most?



Just somebody to remind me
how blue eyes can blur to blackness.
How they can harden in on themselves
and never see:


The time I kept.

The blue wolfcries,
The grinning inquiries.
The song I practiced.
The deep reds and blacks I had poised
above the amber wind—

until the antennae and the patterns
spiraled,
                with laughter
                                      and screams,
into the golden ruffles of my dress.



Yes.
Everyone keeps whispering
That you’re blind.