Palms and Skin

I’m a late night wake of wakefullness, rolling through the hours of wide-eyed emptiness. A free loving hippy snoozer without the snooziness. I sleep in between the rays of the moon and ride the coattails of evening stars. Love me two times and I might come back for more, shy me once and I may never return. But the other out there welcomes me, saturates me, harbours a full sea of

something.

Something filled with tentacles and slippery shoes,
reaching arms to entangle my hair in the rush of void-winds.
Gas,
the breath of giants encircling my mind
and
forever orbiting each thought with tidal moons.

Saltarello,
Saltarello,
Scherzo in the depths,
Smothering Sunday into each other’s steps.
A violin in the spheres
singing to the absent audience
and
awaiting their applause with bated breath.
I dance on the boards between each crescent
watching rockets take to the skies,
and
laughing each moment that rushes by.

A hand for two,
palms and skin
sensitive teachers.

• 07th November, 2022; Upper Moutere
  

© W.F. Stubbs