It Is the Day Fiona Brambles Succumbed to Love

yours are the unseen fingers
that kiss the pale, gnarled moon
at a meridian angle, 
like an inverse autumn charting 
its soft crumbling over grey asphalt—
pulling ghosts from 
your bodice choked with tulle 
in this cathedral silence,
you, Fiona Brambles,
succumb to love: a paradisiacal
garden with the lush of honeysuckle
vines and blueberry bushes,
a charcoal sky fades to milk-skinned white,
a prelude hanging off the Devil’s lips—