Grove of Stones

From the courtyard
Of lips banished,

I leave with a century
Of nettle,

A zither bleeding
In my spine

Wearing the burnished light
Of your late peach.

I’ll take what we were chiseled,
A room that had
No summer,

Magnet repose along the suitcase morgue.

My quartz condition spills
The reflection of your fingerprint.

I will come back for you
When the hull begins to unlock.