Bluing
By stevepoet
Sun, 07 Apr 2019
- 329 reads
This wall of birdsong against
the deepening sky and its attempted
evening is like the day, though
it knows that it must leave, refusing
to go. I turn on the light
but leave the blind open. I like
hearing how the ululating
trebles roll and inevitably become
bass whilst the night opens up like
a bowl of stars, bluing the retina, beckoning
swelling choruses up into itself.
We are none of these things.
Not the singing birds, the change
In vision or the cycle of the day.
We are the points where the longing
darkness becomes kisses
of bright, hanging stars.
I think of you like a far sun, burning.
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