Thursday, November 10, 2011

A Letter Kept To Myself



Dear,
It is somewhat what I imagine knowledge to be
dark, salty, clear moving, forever flowing.
Since our knowledge is historical, flown.
A monotonous coastline, endless and sagging
delicately ornamented by the moon still hanging solid.
The poorest postcard of itself.

Bats?
I was waiting for this letter to find you home.
I guess it will reach you on that waiting room,
I am too shy to stop.
Cannot derange or rearrange.
The Islands have not shifted since.

The pale bay still wearing a milky skin,
flaunting exaggerated beauty.
Topography still more delicate than history,
insisting and cautiously creeping.
Worming back.
Like a prayer for the night to last twice as long.

Those nights, not these.