NaPoWriMo 1: Aphakia

it churns in loco parentis:
the watchful murmur of a thousand eyes,
the cult of full-moon secrets unraveling.
honey,
it's snowing in the city, and she's wondering whether
it's true that

the smoothest arc
of her greatest art-
work
is one of those soft peaks

that cookbooks
drag out of your
egg-beating.
oh - the lens is gone,
and the sky is strawberry-red, mouthing up
the spires of the city and the choruses of bird-calls
that bind the looping anthracite veins
together like a

propeller, an alleyway in December, her feet
tripping over more than the gored engine and wings
of some Cessna, for this is the new landscape

of the night, and the magnetic
underworld fanfare
of siphoned sleep.