He scraped the sky
with a copper crayon
to watch it bleed
a yellowed hue

The sepia soaked
right into the scene
and right down into
me and you

The artist cut the opaque cell
so deftly with his blade
and on his steampunk palate
precisely were we laid

Your heart was like a corset
My eyes like airships called you
And I would not soon forget
our last drink at that saloon

Like a painting nothing moves
here in the scrapbook of my mind
The hands lay still before high noon
and I am stuck in your clockwork eyes