In a cage with bars of foxfire,
I kept an apparition who claimed
to have made, from flax and piano wire
your nom de guerre, your midnight name.
"Tell me, moonless one, " I said,
"Sunless, starless nattering ghost,
Is there gravity for the dead?
A superseding circle outermost?"
She moaned and split to sugar and salt
identical in paleness to your kiss,
and offered a platitude neatly got
from a serpent poisoned with nothingness.
I burnt a root and bled a bird,
a canary-colored silent fake
whose solitude was ringed by words
that only my love or the damned could make.
for Skylover's word list.