April 22 : Nighttime.

Falling through doors
flat long spaces
flying through large
incomprehensible places

I pause.

And in the dark
(it's the shroud of the nighttime
a sheen of velvet clad dreams
flecked with stars and celestial beings
like you) I shut my eyes.
And I stretch out to you
(the far, deep corners of myself)
and I float.

Blurs of trees pass by.
People blurs. Dog blurs.
In the daytime when I am still
my mind is still and calm
they will mean more. But
I let the blurs blur past me
in a desperate attempt
to seize something
which I lost long ago.
Streetlights zoom
in onto my soul.

And if I open my eyes
to the blinding darkness
perhaps I will see your eyes
(a sickly grey, flecked with sad stars)
and perhaps I won't.

And when the nights grow longer
beneath my blankets and my leg
fidgets incessantly but my eyes
are still, you will sleep.
When the piano keys
fall off with the sounds
of breaking hearts and
the moon swells up
with fattened sky and
gentle arms rocking it
to sleep in the gentle hammock
of the precious nighttime.