Bryony

You whisper love, on throubled 'phones, your ravaged face a moon, an arc of pearl light, a lifetime learning to moan, bring you those who cry, luminous as night's glove, beyond their credit zones, learn the words to give, the useless reasons why, dry linen eau de cologne, makes you want to fly, you wear a frosted front, like saints show their bones, it massages your soul, pray with all your might, in gardens lie prone, beyond police sirens, your star is coming home.