malachite.your spine in the moonlight,malachite. by nighttimebeautiful
all bent up and creased.
i line my finger tip with your vertebrae
and you squirm away.
the mountains wouldn’t impress you,
neither the bottom of the sea.
so nor will my finger tips
setting your spine free.
your eyes are green,
but they fill me with
gemstones and coal dust.
postcard.i took a walk through rockway and thought of you today,postcard. by nighttimebeautiful
the names of deceased on plaques under pine trees.
marked with grateful words and sentiment,
our memories will lay at our knees:
on plaques under the pine trees.
drown.yes, i am a creature of the sea,drown. by nighttimebeautiful
it's why the sunset follows me.
oh dear, my dear, what you must know;
the place i will drown is the land,
but no dear no, not ever in the undertow.
yes, the land has books and botany and bees,
but i will only find home, find solace, by the sea.
gifts.the blue light of the bus shelter summons the ghosts inside you.gifts. by nighttimebeautiful
the near biblical sound of snow; sleeping rain, shifting on the sidewalk.
we take the bus when we want to drink
or when we want to experience new people.
we take the longest route home
and watch the snow fall
and the people talk.
(grace me with a small plant that i can tell to grow
and i’ll be happier than with a thousand dollars in a card.)
and i take the bus to have silence and solace.
gift me with a last-line bus ride at one in the morning
and i’ll spill all my secrets.
i’ll write poems about the snow and be grateful.
listen to how an alone man sighs
on the bus at one in the morning.
you’ll be grateful.
(grace me with the sunrise over the golf course in our backyard
and i’ll be happier than with shiny new countertops in the kitchen)
you know how ghosts come out at one in the morning,
but you also know how they come out not from graves, but from the living.
the ghosts come out from the men