Saturday.
Night cries again.

Can I call you midnight
to kill the moon―
and celebrate the dark?

A book and sitting on the
birthmark of a fig tree's thigh
in the temple of a failed god,
I haul up the stains and blues.

Dirty linens. You would
faint in the stale smell of jasmines.
How often you loved to weave
the white beads into a lace for your bun?

Small things. We look
at each other to drift away.
Night lamp struts and flops.
There war no end of pink aches.

Stay aloud. Sky was
listening. Where is the god?