After Fourteen Words Stuck On Black

midnight whisper
with no half-life
amplified across Her moonbeams
clear as miles davis’s trumpet
in noon sun

and from my chest a phoebe flies northward
not needing to be told where to go
toward canvases wrapped in black electric tape
white words Her bones
Her heartbeats
like shafts through a greasy window
burning recompense
dust motes illumined in some sort of random harmony

my compass so long felt not needleless
but they kept moving the magnetic poles
and I kept striking matches in the time machine
until at my feet unburned pine slivers
below spent sulfur tips
scraps
really kindling
for justice’s bonfire

this midnight flame even bluer
me a laughing crossbearer
of half-bliss’s
sparks spitting from ambers
as if stardust had wings
caught a breeze
out of the south