Radio sings love to blackened sunshine
and diners that one lover kept in the divorce.
Raven wings pray for castellated bones of better men,
their echoes eradicate compliments from achromatic lips.
We built a lurid world to desire discovering color.
Enemies aren’t made of stone crosses crushed in shadow,
the anemic hand of time, faces and ears carved in corners.
Trains run on time across spines,
going right in the wrong direction.
Drivers honk more a day than poems they’ll ever read,
yearning for yellow light, living for free seconds--
The exhilaration of making it through
is the last memory of me and you.