Poem 21, National Poetry Month: “You told me sunlight curls…”

You told me sunlight curls around your fingers,
and there is laughter in the sullen draught.

You pulled at febrile strands on your cotton dress
you wore merely because you are tucked up

in the Sistine Chapel ceiling, except in solitary,
without open caverns of tourists below. No one

comes to gawk at your chiseled hands enchanted
by otherworld. And you told me not of shadow—

how it chokes at your palms until they blacken, and
cords squeeze tendrils into writhing worms, how

something must digest the filth. Dusk came
early—it always does—and dawn was lost again.

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