The Night Stephen Passed By
The way you move your eyes is folkloric. The gods sow the harvest in them. I heard them whisper in code to each other, as you come near. Your long black coat brushing their bowed heads as a blessing that of dream quality. Gold coins will lend to that blessing-sleep. The leaves starting to fade from green to the coin's colour. The wind-up tin birds chirp lower and lower still, until their gear hearts give out and the crickets take up the task to shift sound between our silences. A feather of flecked paint falls on the brick steps between us. Your lips kiss me like a brand burning your symbol into me. If I pass you again here, on a night like this, I'll return the favor.