Dan Cardoza writes

Dawn

The scent of decaying roses rivers through the
laced window.
We have fallen back to earth,
a pair of butchered angel wings.

We inhabit the moment in a tangle of bone &
feather, in the harsh world of a new dawn.

Hastily our moment dies.

As we wake to another sun,
a dusty gust powders our damp brows
with salt & silt. Our throats

parch, from each inhale, exhale.
Our end inevitable, our memory glows,
from one perfect wildfire,
still raging in the corridors of 3:00 A.M. 

Lovers -- Dawn Meader