I thought of a place
that could come to be
a holding cell for
the thirst in our hearts.
I held it in my mind:
--a burial ground
piled with peat and
wilted daisies,
forgone letters tapped out
lovingly on typewriters,
a thousand lonesome glances
at the hoary swelling moon,
more caskets of clichés,
more trinkets tired of dirt.
I heap higher and higher
above the settled earth,
until it scrapes the heavens'
knees, until we've set
beneath the moon's chin
like a contemplative fist.
I pull darkening blue sky
close around myself,
wrapping it like a cloak,
as it's cold above reason
near the timberline
of memory, where
roots can't hold to time,
dates without dates,
eternities spent curled together,
conversing in a treehouse always
just at dusk, laying weaved
together in a bobbing canoe,
letting the wind pull
us about the narrow pond.
I've made a bed of all of this,
plumbing a dark sky for you
--this is where I will
rest my tired eyes tonight,
the blue daring
the yellow light.