She wears her broken fingers in her pocket.
Smilt to the linings with the polish painted on her nails by impinging badgers.
Fret and fear.
Sadness gnawing still, her opus drawn by tread worn esteem.
A widow of hope kept to the chamber of her pulse brushed breast.
Grinding skies mock the seventh trumpet.
Glassy iris and refuge to match, bark the daylight arrival.
A span, feather of harlequin demeanor, approaching with weapon sheathed.
Optimism drawn from the soot of her broken glass chest drum.
The sky sings of choirs and beacon of mystery.
Burrowing from the burning sky into a broken fingered lass.
Awe stricken.
—All is well.
Kissing her trampled fingers with acetone, cleansing her hands free as the feathered sky kneels down.
Heal. Let the hands of the clock and the...