You are fallen darkness,
the ghost ship
in the wake of a quarter-moon
Your depth
is like a blue grave
looking back
from a burial at sea
Your hands are shadows
over a campfire
lustering against the lightless
river, palms folding
like prayers over
the embering heat
of driftwood and deadfall
retreating into ash
You are heaven's shoal
of dead stars, the obsidian
lip of the shoreline
I approach without light
The shallow groundswell
of sand un-printing my tracks,
as if to refuse my sunless steps
You are streetlights left behind me
back home, softening now
beyond their dead-end streets.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 10:35 AM UTC
You are fallen darkness,
the ghost ship
in the wake of a quarter-moon
Your depth
is like a blue grave
looking back
from a burial at sea
Your hands are shadows
over a campfire
lustering against the lightless
river, palms folding
like prayers over
the embering heat
of driftwood and deadfall
retreating into ash
You are heaven's shoal
of dead stars, the obsidian
lip of the shoreline
I approach without light
The shallow groundswell
of sand un-printing my tracks,
as if to refuse my sunless steps
You are streetlights left behind me
back home, softening now
beyond their dead-end streets.
