Outside, the sun was wispy as spiderwebs,
weeping beneath the weight of one
thousand crows marching the horizon
like tar and feathered skeleton soldiers.
Outside, that sun—
like so many gray skinned silhouettes
of human beings, standing and waiting
with no action and no hurry;
Just leaning its worries on the wind;
Just the melancholy satisfaction
of knowing itself, here and now;
“Just tomorrow, perhaps,” it seems to say.
“Tomorrow, perhaps, will be my day.
If not, okay. If not,” it seems to say.
I move out and away
from the shadow box window,
climb back into her bed and fall asleep,
dreaming of the sequins
pasty tightrope walkers always wear
(whenever dreaming is concerned).
She, beside me, whispers nothing
and the sun, back in its box,
quiet as tear soaked sand.
It is perfect and
I begin to forget.
Outside, that sun;
Wispy as spiderwebs;
Gray skinned silhouettes
standing about, sipping
salt from the seas,
spitting sequins on she;
“Oh,” my acrobat.
“Oh,” my lady.
“Oh,” the absurdity of your skin
running so ripe ‘round me.
how I admire your scenery
Outside the sun;
Outside, that sun.
That outside sun.