I breathe this same night as you,
this night humid with eyes,
this night of crushed hearts.
Though continents separate us,
the way it enters first you,
it is like a tide turning,
bringing a salt of remembered song,
this same night.
What part of you do I receive?
Your fear of love,
your day broken by horizons,
your ecstasy for another’s waist?
I receive all of this,
and I too am broken by a jealous moon.
With a rag-eared note in a bottle,
I send my reply.
I am lonely, and my body wishes this
night we share were not so immense,
so burdened with impossibility.
But a vastness of black flowers
drowns my mouth.
This night we both breathe,
alone with an enormous love,
I cannot traverse this hemisphere of ruins.
The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.
The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.
I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.
But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.
A dozen tiny children
squatting on the rocks,
crabs in pools,
wind collapsing seaward.
Children of a crueler world
pulling off the ocean’s legs.
A dozen sea birds
angry in the sky,
the silent fish and chip hordes.
The wind returns across the surf,
holding the hand
of a dead fisherman.
A dozen memories of you,
seaweed on the sand,
you waded here,
stones between your thighs.
The seagulls were happier then,
the children kind,
the crabs still had their claws.