The sky, golden as summer,  
hangs four-sided through my 
window.  As square as yesterday.
Falsetto chants of sunrise birds still 
sing to the birth of light.  
The squirrels
have not forgotten how to 
play, flirting from limb to rooftop
like children laughing 
in a city park.  It was only 
a small cut, a surface wound 
of the heart.  He never sliced
the sky.  The stars, cherished 
scintillation, flicker - they 
twinkle still, placed against 
another night in all its naked beauty 
and I will learn not to remember 
those robotic eyes, man of lies.
He only scraped the surface 
not the sky.




20 nov 01
M Madison