She sings,
voice of hot gold
disrobed
from her lips,
she strips
the stars
from their thin
glow
exposing
their hurts
& burns,
naked
blossoms
shattered bare.
She sung,
her voice
a warm shawl
thriving
in the air
thundering
on the pavement.
She sang,
her voice
dark berries
that burst
in the guts,
her voice
dripping
with sour
honey
lingers
in the soul.
As she strips
the stars
from their thin
broken glow.
______________
Photo: Phil KNOTT, for BILLBOARD : “Amy Whinehouse”