This is the hour
When the black dog is eating moonstones
and on the dark river
gipsies are singing
of moons made of blood.
This is the hour
when moths speak of insistence
to a flame of white silence
when clocks press the unwanted minutes
into caps of metal.
This is the hour
when Proserpina forgets
to cup the moon
in her hands
and love is a flower of paper
under glass and dust.
