Brandon Shimoda
N i g h t H o u s e s
What little candles
overhead
What little chestnuts
crushed in the cul-de-sac
stillborn piano
strings pop after pop
bearing from their cases quiver, Here is your knife
What little peaches on a thinly tuned vein
lain
beneath the blackfruit hedge
What little combustible seeds I eat—
engrailed-like me-like growing a gown
fluttering a stillborn canary out
redeeming wings, an obsidian eye unsocketing
The piano lid slams
on your chest
back
