Читать книгу Bad Ideas - Michael V. Smith - Страница 14

Prayer for Promiscuity

Midnight in Stanley Park,

the moon is an ally. Night

breathes a chill into firs.

Men double as tree trunks,

appear a darker dark.

Within, your ears are readied eyes,

sift animal sounds from human,

some differences of intent.

The dark will always see better.

As though it hides our lovers

like the dead, dead before we met,

the night teaches us to miss

what we never had.

Across Lost Lagoon, the apartment

complexes rise, pixelated

a horizon lonelier than childhood.

If we’d been children together, perhaps

we could have saved each other.

When they lift from the shadows of trees

what do your palms reach for?

Have you noticed your fingertips,

bark peppering the skin? I could lick them

clean as silence if they rested here

and here awhile.