Raking Over Church Yard Cinders

That night in the churchyard I raked cinders This way and that; like a Chinese gardener. Rinses the sun's gold. 'Black renders lacquered' Into green coals, honeycombs, hot pitchers. There I see the broth in her eyes poking fun. As I raked the cinders this way and that, I am reminded of our hot fiery spitting spats. That charcoaled my fires to the bone and made shun. Like a shadow from the sun, like a bee from the rain. And why with the job done. Did I let mosquitoes bite? Blister and bloody my smoke - kippered skin, again And again, I question, what's to reignite! As the moon bequeaths its skeletal light! Through the eye sockets of distant; lank-white-stars, I'd perch a blackbird with my feathers alight Hoping to find her old warmth's in the winds guitars.