until the mindless hours of night,
flout cellos strain the tunes
shifty shadows.
rustle of handmade dresses and voiceless chatter,
of dried glands spoiled in milk, guild
the finger painted echo of her
I listen to paper dolls toss and turn
in her shoe box below the stairs.
A cradle rocks
in my broken stagger’s shadow,
under her coronet crescent moon.
