Tayve Neese

So quietly, beauty leaves,
sneaks off with dried up teats
from constant suckle. It hides like the flesh

of ancient silent turtles making 
dark homes in their dome shells.

Why does it go?  It wants to be beckoned, 
hear me sing my frantic sparrow’s serenade.

Beauty, beauty, forgive each mistake we’ve made.

Originally published in diode, v8n9.