cherry branches cold
forged in that white streetlight:
metallic, sure, but a
galvanized finish—
wrong time of the month
for an 8 o’clock moon,
wrong season for twilight;
crabapple’s budding
maroon though: blood pricked
in a kindermärchen
promise in the last
glimpse of the west’s blue eyes
before sleeping—such a
long time—that other
streetlight might shine
off the cedar’s highest bough
Jack Hayes
© 2017
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