In the dialect of sapphire blinks
he said he could chisel slippers from the cold eclipse.
I reminded him to pluck the jewels from Orion
when he’s not looking and they’re left to curdle
in the jokes of Mercury, ripened and illustrious.
Black is flattering to my hips, but so are jewel tones.
I’m a winter in that sense, yet still so ignorant
in the fashion of tactile sensation and emotion.
Perhaps a sheer hare would do well for my calves.
A fox, rampant with flame and stoked with coffin velvet,
or a woodpecker with a wildfire in its laughter.
I look the best in demise and mourning –
these predators like a girl sadder than the dying moon.
But his tongue is softer, is warmer, than that. He says
this is all just beautiful, and so are you. I wear the furs
of a horror game sunset and call it a day.