Sun Down

When the tired sun folds
into its shadowed carapace
 
she wanders weary
cavernous halls
 
afraid to be
still. She rattles doors
 
tests windows, drifts
quietly away
 
from the nurses’ false-kind
eyes. She fears the pills
 
that pin her mind like
a fresh killed butterfly.
 
Her face is a shattered moon
in the night sky’s tangled viscera.


This poem first appeared in Passages North