Cetacea Singing

Trying to prolong the night
we sit in the park
I would like to point out the stars for you
but the sky is orange
Instead I chart the constellations
of this perma-lit little town
To the North, the cold and beautiful north
is Iceland, here, winter is contained and controllable
In the hot and fragrant East, is The Rose of Bengal,
where continents come in paper bags
Opposite, toward the West
Mcdonald's golden arches lead to a nicer day
'What lies south?' you ask, pointing to the gap above and beyond
where a clementine sky splashes the impasto purple horizon
'The sea, home to many mysterious and unknown creatures '
you laugh and tell me
'dolphins have names you know, a call sign
pertaining only to themselves,'
and we wonder if they are birth given
or if, like Native Americans
they are earned by character or dreams
and whether they ever get lost
in the middle of the ocean
in the middle of the night, blindly
convexing, curving up through the surface
splicing the water with the sharp black air
Craving a star, or a magnetic tug
Calling, calling, a solitary, sonic, silent song ; 'I'm here, it's me, I'm here'
Somewhere at the edge of the town
where the streetlights end
we feel the darkness swallowing the land
the sky, the sea.