Haunting, the way they discovered them —
selves in spiralling night messages —
a web of promises broken, abandoned
under the eye’s disdain: cool words
ground to salt. Remembering
the way they dressed and left each morning
for a mild day away — shelving
their secret lives, small freedoms: how finally
they walked out past day’s first light,
the flowers never offered, the chagrin,
stepping away from blue cool,
what they couldn’t own
into midday’s fury, the red of it.