It's about four
in the afternoon by our watches
when the starved winter solstice
light starts to shudder
and collapse;
beneath the eclipse's
shadow draping main street,
some are insulated from that disaster
by the loveliest patterns
of color, music, and incantation
and delicately conditioned
to love all those
who are not with them at the moment,
albeit under some very specific
terms and conditions.
Later on at home,
some find themselves inexplicably
swiping right
on a few princes
trapped in the bodies of grotesque animals
or princesses who swear
up and down it was
just an accident
when they pricked their fingers on
their sixteenth birthdays.
Somehow, all of us manage
to fall asleep
as ourselves—each having
our own separate piece
of the loneliest dream.
