a shadow between

sponge-molded floorboards 

and marble countertops,

a daffodil that’s shrunken

flattened against the ground 

dismissed until dawn breaks,

 

the splitting of an egg

yolk running through

the little valleys onto

the stone kitchen floor

drops of yellow, like petals

and liquid sunlight spilling in.

 

or is it more secretive,

censored until it takes ghosts

in rows in airports – packs that

read “police ice” in bitter green – 

 

to teach us another kind of

mourning, something as simple as

goodness can an entire field

wither? 

 

the steamrolled shadow

blooms and stretches lazily

 

it wakes with the gold-

cast morning hue

 

gracing our headstones

amber.