High on a hill
Silhouettes from window sills
Chatter their teeth as the sounds our secrets keep
A nameless liturgy
Over the horizon line
Everyday is isis
Called as a cresting mirage
Singing as a phantom limb
A mirror made of faces
Held in the halves of my heart
Saturdays I forget
It’s everything that hasn’t happened yet
Deep in this dark
Terrors blare as meadowlarks
With translucent skin
They wear their crooked crowns
To shake our halos down