Distant objects glow,
faint emergencies recede.
I don't even hear
the idiot whispers
invading the sweet hall of night.

Outside the stars flicker,
pursued by beautiful storms,
beautiful dreams.
Even the deep water's
lambency flutters,
brushed by the wind,
the wan, wide hand
concealing the hope of home.

The river reaches your throat.
In fluid glass you stand.
The sky bends overhead,
rich and dark and streaming.
It swoops between the blades of grass
and their shadows
and stoops to kiss
the invisible horizon
beyond your name.
Your wrist, your palm,
turned upwards,
reveal tired flowers
falling as you raise them,
into the world.

Thank you for reading.