In the moon was a girl who played
the starfish notes of an astral organ,
a filigree sewn on the jackets of men
sent to protect her later. I left it with you
the clown’s blush that swelters 
on your city window, the cribbed 
notes from your quiet genocide,
carried away in the spotted noon 
by a lark, maybe, or some lexical
hummingbird. The glower I wear 
now is an appraisal of this chipped
birdhouse—this world without you.

The cupboards, the spoons, the rain;
all alone, the little girl enjoying the yard:
on these days your small eyes 
grew as orbs powered by rocket fuel,
and I know this well. In each was a heart
through which my heart has seized, at least,
if not stopped.  Chaos begins syllabic—
a splash, an echo, then the full run
till you can’t hear yourself
above a sundial’s uproar.  

The deposits your innocence makes;
your olive eyes, space’s love deposits,
will leak by and by. The carnies, belly
dancers, the capital grind will eat
from within, where the ciphers have
been placed like room keys.

The looping mandalas will twine
above Manhattan, the radar of your
corruption will grow with the loops 
of hypnotic rocks, or some form 
of salvation with amenable kernels.

This is why you need a rose
dilated in a moonflower pose
and that's it
Miss Chelsea Rose