Late Blue Hour

I sense the feral feel of sadness
through the air as the rum
bottle spills its bloated frame
over the ground. Look now,
my center is musing on
deaf ears inside a house whose
ceiling is a thing that
stifles as a whiff of unbrushed teeth.

At this late blue hour,
a throaty breeze lifts aside
my ebony curls, where shadows
and light are folding into
the petite avalanche of my hollow chest.

And like a petticoat worn
short at the ankles, I sit upon
this nest-shaped chair that bares
my delicate arches to the vibrating
dust from the slanted ceiling.

Expat to the drawing rhythms from
the floor, I sag with the gravity
of absence the same old way when
turmoil is so consuming all around.