Celebrating a certain summer star festival.
When to the seventh night they flock,
Joy-birds across the silver stream
With wings like glockenspiels, that beat
And ford the waters, dock to dock,
Allowing us to meet—
Your sunset clouds signal to me
Anticipation, in the weave
Of blushing threaded through with heat
From under practised lethargy,
As ev’ning airs blow sweet—
And till the morning you’ll be real
No bright star, distant: human warmth
In hands, cheeks, eyelashes adorn’d,
Beauty to see, your pulse to feel.
I’ll hold you till the morn.
So when tonight the bridge is born
Allowing us at last to meet
I’ll come, as ev’ning airs blow sweet:
I’ll come to hold you till the morn.
So it looks like I can try poetry too.
Sleep comes in waves retreating from the real
—It doesn’t end.
Walls and the ground were always just pretend.
Voices dampen, as coyest murmurs steal
Round your arms with profoundest feel—
—ing, like you’ll bend:
Into a night of living dream.
Into a tv sky.
Into a world where flat is tall
And round, and all besides.
Blocks they will form, to stopper up your sight.
Then a kick, it falls—Toppling, mere light.
So I decided to write a short story. I hope you find it funny.
Red on the Carpet
Then there was red on the carpet and the maid was in tears. She knelt and wept in great silent sobs Continue reading