Nights like these are absent of breeze,
absent of light, but in need of a savior.

He glides into the bleakest back alleys:
no savior, but a fae in a longtailed coat.
Pecking playful kisses on graying lips
to check the drunkards for signs of life.

Nights like these are absent of breeze,
absent of gentleness, yet he still floats.

Broader shoulders than a fae ought bear
lift the unconscious figures up high.
Arms swinging in the cool midnight light
to the feral stride of the step-less man.

Nights like these are absent of breeze,
absent of certainty, or a clear fate.

Unknowing dolls lay at the forest’s foot,
stirred in their own punishing cocktail.
The fae, holding a long silver pin too tight,
nudges open the sleeping eyes forever.

Nights like these are absent of breeze,
absent of objection and knowing thought.

Grinning broadly, with moss dogged teeth,
the fae stitches expression into his toys.
Confusion, fear, hate, love, and pain
are sewn out of spittle-softened milkweed.

Nights like these are absent of breeze,
absent of humanity, thought, or remorse.