How do the feverish ashamed
--cheeks prickling, eyes
glowing and glazed--hide the
gritty heft of their skeleton keys?
How do they silence the jangling
in their pockets that reminds them
of the rusty-hinged doors they
closed, of the dark, still passages
How do they capture and
quiet the trilling flock
of musical nights and diner days?
How shade the vivid fury
of diamonds and daydreams?
In what gilded cages do they
display the aging hearts' desires
and unborn loyalties that would,
otherwise, fall into a jagged V
into the southern night?
(c) 2014, by Hannah Six