Noel

the shroud of night
folds back the dead
dry plains

and it is morning

clear and high and
full
of birds

where do they go

for the directionless
it is impossible to
know

we walk amid the
gas lights and bumper cars
and crowd crystals of
improbability
without North
without South

for the rudderless
Everywhere is
home

and it is morning
cold and keen and
light
with longing

I must check
and check and check
again

panties –√
bra –√
shirt (turned right) –√

never quite certain
all the pieces are in
place

and it is morning

when a stranger’s
frozen spittle
sparkles
on the grey ground
like beach glass in
July

this spot I do not
know

and yet we must have come
here
in the simmering cool of
summer nights
searching for a safe spot to
fumble and explore,

surrounded only by the
softly scented sage and the
cachectic call of crickets
under the pinhole dome of
this endless sky

but wait
no
that wasn’t
You
was it

or was it

has it been
always
only
You

every touch
through every night
in every morning

You
my greatest gift

You

©sdrogers 14 december 2013

Thank you for letting me know you were here.

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