Satin folds lap,
held clinging toward the moon as it moves
by capillary action,
seeping its quicksilver mass
out of the rumbling band of light stretching
from the ocean to my feet.
And I think this might be better shared with some
close-leaning her...
or captured, I suppose,
but I couldn’t paint the quiet tide thrumming closer,
or photograph the crisp evening or the scent of spent bonfires,
and I could never warm a body absent.
But these gentle, beautiful motes
are the reason why we persevere,
like when the sublime sneaks upon you
and finds a link between your mind and heart
so deep that it quakes your very quiddity.
It is enough for tonight to have been here,
embraced by the still, cold evening,
and look into these few silly lines
for the secret smile of a tacit moment.
Turn around, the last hues of dusk dispersing into
the plum western sky, heading home.
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