midnight

Tuesday. April 02, 2019 - 2 mins

Old trains and
their saccharine plea.
      London filled with rain.
      Across frozen steel farms and brick laden townships,
      resemble me in the fog that hugs them close.
      This window seems to draw every ounce of light
      toward my eyes.
Even still,
I can make out the outline
of your eyelashes in the moonlight.

As if they have a secret.
- I’ve heard them all by now.
The wide ripples of air
and glamorous strips of light,
      Now even the moon
      mocks me from the floor.
      Pendulums swing to the ticking clock.
      “Close your eyes,” I hear from upstairs.
            I close my eyes.
wondrous necessities,
all essential to a room.
Who would sleep in any place less?

Speak!
This time with words,
describe
      What architecture is
      the kind we’ve spent longing for?
      Yours or mine?
      Tracing light blue canyons
      where I descend
      towards a glow
      at the base of the ocean. how to simply hear a horn at the peak of night. I’m not sure there’s a horn like that.
      Or a stone, for that matter. Instead,

Listen quietly in the daytime too.
To attention and whatever attitude must mean,
to wisdom. Genuinely, honestly — listen!
      Even on the third floor, it’s just as silly.
      Nonsense is made and unmade by
      speakers pumping hot noise over a crowd
      of the latest victims.
“A train, wise?”
I suppose it’s much more believable
But how else does one learn to design tomorrows?
      Look!
      There’s your shadow sprawled out on the pavement
      that brittle edge cast by the sun. You’ve stepped
      outside.
            “But wisdom is a sad thing?”
      Last night’s ring lost in the morning light
      along with the final formants from your lips.

I wouldn’t roll in any of the chrome fields
or run through the rain,
shake the highlights from your hair,
or even look through this - transparent thing.
I would write
a warm letter
detailing how it was that I turned away,
how “overwhelmed” means fewer showers, lethargy,
muteness.

      Something has collected at the bottom on the pond.
      I won’t be the first to dip my hand in,
      but I can tell you it’s there.
“And would you write a sound too?”
Of course - with ink sipped
from those strips of light across the margins of space,
where I whisper
shelfs of considerations and adventures I’d like to have.
All the countless mysteries of
      Pleasure,
      so that fantasy
            my first love
      was prolonged until one climatic hope.
            suddenly burst from my heart
            an already thin membrane.
the opportunities of isolation.

What would it be like
to stand atop a train?
As it courses through the earth.