Manhattan blinks the midnight down
Cigarette lashes, sweet as the triquetra dreams
Pastel skin yawns his dioxide
Pure as a baby's breath.
He is the one a.m sunrise,
Wake me up before the dawn.
He is the last stanza with no price,
Bring his hand to the ground.
Manhattan dims his hands goodbye
Ashes for lashes, bitter as the American dreams
Vivid skin stings his carbon
Stained as a dying flytrap.
A sonnet beneath his eyelids in Manhattan.
A rhyme beneath my whisker far from the sun.
(Four degrees. Partly cloudy and windy.)
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