small hours

by Allister Nelson

Eros hung from the true cross half-blinded

“Bring sweet-breads and water,” he plied.

In my dream-vigil

cranes carried love to his lips-

and soft, like an angel, he sighed.

Mice bore down on Love’s bindings,

he gave me his Harlequin mask.

We played charades under the moonlight,

letting the small hours pass.

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