We are tied with laces,—

the very same laces

that string the stars together

—held back by the surging

of the night, like a large

black wave on the ocean

that never quite reaches the shore.

I hear beatles

scuttling on the sand,

pinpricking this

silted silence

with the ease of


the loneliness of old men

in wooden homes by the sea.

My head is in the clouds, above the

ground, so far

into the skies

I can taste the moon’s wine

snaking down at night

to settle on the floor of the world.