Done Days

End of Days, by
Robert Reinhardt

Done Days

Sour eclipse drips down the aerials –
the wind minces up some holy words;
sticks them to a calendar, pinches
the sweet misery, like keg powder over lily of the valley,
seasons sleeping endings unraveled into erythrean sins,
measured, spoken about, called to memory –
blue shame in the golden garden,
the antelope’s tongue on the surface of the water,
birds of a feather, shrieking – unapologetic,
invoke it and call it
a bedroom, call it a church,
the stones rustle in the seed of sanctuary:
come cold; do lonely –
every winter will soon root wet,
(you too)
in the yawn of light
come bold, come sorry – all
eternity’s ferocious prisoners
wandering the path of night,
(will count less and less)
blankets of bloom eating the dusk warm
(dots on the sky)
by the dark cover
of eden –
all the meadows
naked
and accounted
of forget-me-nots

*showed first in Suburban Witchcraft Magazine, Issue 2