Thursday, April 23, 2015


How come all the roads shift south to north?
Circular, recursive
And roundabout,
And back again,
Back home;
When they should reach and tear ragged wounds
Into that cold purple horizon, into the abyssal black,
Through the tunnel of night and into the distance,
Until we see our way clear at last.

How come that bitter chill of night bites
At frozen words we might expel?
Hoarfrost phrases freezing until they break,
Until lips crack, and there's the cold hard silence
We didn't speak when we first met the night,
On the night we first met and tasted the cold copper
Of blood from each other's mouths.
When we refused to remain inside,
When all the signs of science
Might tell us to do

The gentle violet fog of twilight casts its own doubts,
Casts twin shadows of love and longing,
Of solitude and hope;
Its wispy tendrils clinging
Close to our bare chests as we attempt to bare
And bear our hearts,
All the while,
The weight of the everlasting Stars
and their songs upon us.

How come there's a shake in our hands when we wake,
There are tremors and such when the cold is faint -
Tremors that match the rhythm of a simple and gentle thing,
Like the heart sweetly pounding against the back of a cage
Of bones that barely keep it contained.

How come all the markers are turned south?
The signs that might point any which way but here are
Sealed by ice and the indifferent stare of a million different
Galaxies of lifeless and distant rocks and balls of gas,
Shining their light from history, already dead, but still
Signalling that there is hope,
There is a ghost.

How come there's a light in the dimming distance,
in a sun that's already set?

Why, at the dawn or the decline of already dying light,
Do I see you?