Ali stretched his hand towards the night sky and pulled down a crescent of milk-white seaglass, polished smooth by decades of waves. ‘Here is all the moon I can reach,’ he said. His lover smiled in silence, her eyes full of starlight. She touched the glass to her lips.
sky cool blue promise
sun teasing through wisping clouds
eyes behind a fringe
clouds in the sky
cloud my mind
I could gaze forever
planes cross above us
wide chalk lines on blue
skies promise freedom
rocket trails weightless in the star-studded sky
flower bursts hang, hang
fall like clothes
softly dropping to a carpeted floor
the world ends
early morning sky
sun slides upwards through bare trees
dogs bark. foxes cough
There’s the picture on the big church ceiling
where the older fellow reaches for the hot young thing.
Got it? Well, forget the picture and focus on the fingers –
after all, it’s the gap that stays in our memory.
So, their fingers don’t touch and the sky shines through –
what does that make you think I wonder?
(Rhetorical question by the way.)
It made me think of our fingers pointing
that imagined day on the soft-sand beach
pointing to the sky
scratching a chalk-white cloud line across the chalky blue.
Two heads, two hearts, two hands, one line.
A line from where to somewhere
A line that never ends.
Close your eyes and the stars spiral to their own music, the sky the softest black. Touch.