019: While the world sleeps

Every evening, as the light sinks dim,

armies march homeward in cardboard discipline,

on the crests of waves through lunar seas of salt

to the cadence of recurring dreams

and the tepid isostasy of illusions.

Every morning, as the noise explodes,

the whipping hand quakes the cradle

and bottom deals a newborn flaming wing,

I take it for a walk, a ride, a flight

beyond steps and seas and silver lines.

Then the lid is regrown, the chrysalis resown,

sprawling dusk heralds the lachrymal feast

for Icarus, motionless in the perpetual abyss.

Egressing these frail walls on tippy toes,

I leave to dream of the blue curtains she wore.