Memory Palace

A cloud takes a lifetime
to smother the sun. It's finally

a crime, but it's also a glory,
the lining sizzling gold,

the afternoon's image
occulted. Truth is I don't

have an art. One pulls the other
one down. I know

there's a blue-purple hill.
I know all the girls

disappear. I don't
break a sweat. I sit

the whole year with a bird
on my lap. The firmament

wobbles. Their deep
purple feet. Asleep, it comes

back, fast, but late
there were poisonous leaves

and salt on the path
like an alphabet.