Up from smolder, smoke sits knitting its braid in the dark.
Tuck the tip into your locket, curled and frayed in dark.
I took sad receipt of your last letter, a scratch of ink
and ash borne on the edge of a spade in the dark.
Bury the memory in your little black dress. One bite
of bourbon and dirge becomes serenade in the dark.
Sarah J Sloat, Citron Review