pica_pica

IT CAN BE MIDNIGHT

Sometimes on a schooner when the clouds are bloated to the point of
Reaching down to the sea to dip in and release their black cargo into the salt
Without raining
You are standing on the bow.

It can be midnight somewhere and the sails are down
The surface of the depths holding you high above the abyss is
Black flat and silent save for the lapping of my salty tongue on the hull

It can be midnight somewhere and your eyes are down
Dilated pupils mirroring the fish in me staring up.
Whispering fish lullabies and short saline tragedies about a seagull.

It can be midnight somewhere and now theres a sound
A creak in the boards of the deck below resisting my advance
Theres a whale song in your head humming inaudible caressing the hull

It can be midnight somewhere leaning over the rail
Above the coral mountains and blind prehistoric mysteries
You are humming a sirenic hymn with my fish and they are warm

It can be midnight somewhere and somewhere a gale brews
But not here in the tight embrace of water to wood
Not here as my fish press into the hull
Not here, not a dream its not what it seems

It can be midnight somewhere and the weight of your skull
Becomes a cloud swooning, becomes a cloud bloating
Becomes a cloud
reaching down to the sea to release its pure cargo into the salt
without raining.

It is midnight somewhere, and our sea begins its rotation to the sun.