[Kay Syrah]

When the impression of
what cold sheets becomes
where we loved and
who made it so.
Why not dare a chill
naked memory,
when we remember
what time we burned
where the hearth could
not contain us, but
who will know
why if we cannot
remember and warm.

[Kay Syrah]

West at dawn

Dawn city, scarlet
towered of red
women and blue nights,
standing in glass,
and the fire
that forms it,
shouldering
the grey purple
backside of dark
into the sheltering
of translucent shadow.
And the sky cracks
the fissure releasing
the elemental
liquid that forms,
and decides to dare
the crucible,
and confound with
the phenomenon
of a west-rising sun.