Feast of Midnight | William Davis

in the failing light we tumbled cradled edges and bone handles

palms flushed, held sinister 

finding ourselves medallioned in blackbirds wings, fresh as clay

red rich with iron made oils 

we chased after bitter willow, gorging on creepers wrapped through stones

our knees feeding ruts in creekbeds 

tiers of reflected gaze flicker past lamps with widened eyes

contorted in terrified applause 

will d. is a nurse by day and poet on occasion, drifting southeasterly. Upcoming work in Southchild Lit and Dreams Walking. Scribbles under @ByThisWillAlone.