Sleeping machine
whose nine is your midnight
sharpen these wings
to make the most of my twilight.
Leave your dusks at the gate,
give the meagerest of your means
and we'll seek out the holiest
of these cosmic winter-dreams.
Take these eyes, O moon,
now their emerald into grey.
Spin my sidereal irises
into tarnished gold again.
And should I see the dawn,
in your marginal darkness,
May I ignore that turgid sun.
May I always be your likeness.
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