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”