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
angels,
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.
10/11/2014