Moles

This time I see her moles, convex in their bone-white setting, as gem-like.  Don't you?

Shining black or light brown, but she's rubbing them out, or she's trying with all might.  Don't you?

Night bestows its cloak, heartbreakingly so, repositioning lamplight.  Don't you?

She sits stiffened and straight, refusing the chair's recline.

She turns left and away, excusing her eyes from mine.

She hopes all other lights expire with the sun's decline.

This time I see each mole's convexity as concavity's failed flight.  Don't you?

Rising flesh in light brown comes settling down and gently fastens or holds, concessive and servile, embodying tenderness while

She sees vincible front, clipped wire, and exposed shoreline.

She hears horrible shrieking choir when our cries combine.

She hopes all other lights expire with the sun's decline.