When it is Night

When it is night

and the moon is drifting

across the darkened sky

like an illuminated lifeboat,

you pass with it

through the sea

where there is no border to its vacancy,

only the limitless light

the smattering of stars bring,

scattering their punctured points in the abyss.

Nightime in sea mist

no ships visible under this

floating ceiling.

 

Roaming the wilderness of falling fragments,

you catch the moon’s reflection in undulation

like a wayward cloud adrift on its own,

you lay in a bed of reflections

watching the ceiling mirror reveal the naked form

of stars being born

in courtyards of abandon

streaked in derelict palaces,

the forbidden places you know so well.

 

Soon the night caved in

the broken panes of sleep

fractured over the course of a minute

that felt like an eternity of breathing.

Deep sleep in a night of no alarms

rain-glistened and no longer weeping,

the canopy was your ceiling,

the sky, another dimension of skin,

where the jungle ends and space begins.

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