by Michael Constantine McConnell
I remember the beginning,
when winged night led
his mistress to Gomorrah,
where they would prosper
and raise a family
of bratty little sinners.
We once discussed such
things over breakfasts,
and flowers stemmed
from our words, hung
in the air like kites.
Then the wind lost
its  voice, and silence
verbed our nouns, grew
into a delusion with hair
and teeth, backpedaled
into the mind’s desolate
recess, where a cloaked
destroyer lingers, divining
forgiveness from the crystalline
entrails of sunlight’s
devastating absence.
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