what’s born of a balmy night

The other night I mentioned on Twitter that I was going to write a story about a staircase and a balmy night. Then I got distracted and wrote some book.

In any event, every evening where I presently reside is balmy at the moment. It’s quite lovely when the sun goes down.

Here is how recent PM hours inspired my poetry… i’m crap with titles.

untitled

Some nights
you walk through the atmosphere.
Not around it, not within.
Straight… through.
It’s kind of like
you’re a knife, sharp.
Fast.
A quick blade.
Slicing.
Cutting something with such
precision and no risk of dulling.
Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip
(Do you remember when I said I couldn’t tear?)
Your long fingers
show that you were born skilled
with blades.
We talked about this. And about
you, us… me.
We both knew
my rooted earth requires nothing
beyond assurance.
(Can you offer that?)
I dreamt of forever
once.
It was a long time ago,
my hand as warm as any comfortable reminder.
Comfortable
like your favorite
grown up chair or childlike toy.
An object to make someone
feel safe.
(Is that what you are?)
It feels that way.
The way someone’s eyes feel
on the back of your
bare neck. Hot from
singeing the tiniest hairs
in a feeble attempt to get you
to
turn
your
head.