Skyline

42nd Saturday by Night.
Stars glance through furtive clouds
Against a sky that smells of Dahlias
In the throes of Summer.

79, and one in their heads
Shimmer with delight in the confines
Of the beleagured joint.
Speaking of things lost
Mourning for beliefs unearthed.
Contradiction serves them, dressed in fuchsia.
Appealing. Arrogant. Astounding.

Swallow with a flourish
And get to reside for extended bantering.
Smile.
Please.

42nd Sunday by Morning.
Sun peeks lazily through hazy eyes.
Command. Run.