Six poems for the late hour.

Bright rooms on a dark page. Choose a card, or let chance choose for you.

Ember Tide

The harbor keeps a secret fire beneath its black and breathing skin.

Winter set the orchard still in panes of frost and sugar-light.

Stalls unfold like painted fans along the street that never sleeps.

They rise as if the dusk were kind, a congregation made of flame.

The river keeps a softer time than any tower, any gear.

The storm arrives in violet fur, a radio of rain and bone.