11: 19: 28 A.M.
winter dies in a vivid lunar eclipse that year, a glinting sickle moon's razor--edge murdering ironlike evening stars, spoiling frothing clouds to the colour of pulpous gala apples, and slicing the horizon in halves so it bleeds down unto the salty flesh of the earth. such is the root of every child's first desire -- an itch to die so magnificently.
☽
YOU ARE READING
IN ARLES
Poetrydrop by my house at half past noon; we'll make small talk of murder over chamomile tea © VANGOHS, 2017
