knives and nooses

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in a hotel full of out-of-tune harps,
we sit on unpolished wooden floors
sifting through dead, crackling leaves
for messages in the undertow.

desdemona, she laughs,
opens up the blue box in her lap
lets loose a cloud of moths
tiny wings burning
like match heads.

they fly chaotically
for a while,
a wheeling cloud
of miniature fires,
and then
fall dead
smoldering,
legs kicking,

antennae drawing
out the shapes
of insect gods
into the air.

dezzie’s eyes gleam
silver doubloons
reflecting hourglasses
only she could see.

down in the alleyway
the ragman plays
broken songs
on a dead radio.

knives and nooses everywhere, he coughs,
smiles a mouth
full of surgical teeth,
turns the dial up
and points up at me.