Black Under Heaven

everything lives unnerved tiny cups and scissors hungover lilies in heaven marching in glass on the table our child arranging the sky, sleeping between the doorway blue garments an ocean on the bedroom floor-

your scent a kind of black under heaven all raging and soft, breaking the tracks of summer a chapel in the fourth wall always lit up and nursing

I have become larger in it a new kind of warm ash burning up the edges and bathing out the reality TV government I have become more winged

we barely notice the ceiling falling onto our bed emptying out the ariel stars that have tracked our whole lives til now walked with us through hysteria and trees made into empty news

we live in one room the BT Tower our lighthouse, we have become two mothers we are unearthed, dosing in the scent that is an eternal morning.