Equine Skulls Like Cantilevered Death

Those equine skulls like cantilevered death
With barren eyes that once beheld the crown.
This periwinkle flesh that bleeds like self,
Like dawn’s disgrace, like virgin bedsheet stains.

The ghastly mile-stone teeth that mark the way,
Those equine skulls of cantilevered death.
That show like graves and hold in captive words
The poet’s hidden scrolls of love, of want.

The moons that once gave rise to silvered breasts,
To pale caressing hands of carnal fate,
Those equine skulls like cantilevered death,
That spilled their mountain’s rain like mother’s milk.

How ill-considered have these nights become,
That hold no sleep, but waking dreams of loss,
That drain the life like undertaker’s jars,
Those equine skulls like cantilevered death.