The setting light splits into pieces,
Between slanting silhouettes, caught upon a little pool of sky;
You absorb in silence, aware,
This margin of worlds is a fleeting fantasy,
Like those ten minutes between windscreens,
When moving streetlights fall upon her in streaks.
Walking with her, alone, an hour of the night,
Into deep corners of thoughts,
Time is not a dipping sunset, and yet it won't bend,
To this desire of holding it in a straight line,
And walking with her, alone, till the break of morning;
The hour passes, and that is all,
You are blessed, you know,
Even if this was the end;
You smile, and you walk on.
The day turns, a little distance has a way,
Tonight holds in its palms as a fragrance, yesterday;
Her touch breaks upon your body in the ocean breeze,
And her voice, locked in moonlit waves, pours into intimate spaces;
You lay down against the night and silent laugh,
Filling hope into the sea;
This is where you would stop, if you could,
The passing train that carries everything away.
Had it, then, really come to be,
You would remember the secret,
That something, unnamed, between you,
That blooms in mortal time,
And will forever remain god's envy.
