Botticelli on the shortest night woke me
water pail sloshing
kindling brushes in an apron pocket
I squinted down the stairs where we waited
to sweep some sign across the darkness
You fell asleep

Yes, I said
nestled between lush bodies
dreaming lighter than the longest day
Paint a message, she offered
shovel, rake, sand sifting
through a stranger’s hands
Far Rockaway longboards
a clutch of pale shark fins
huddled in jackpots of moonlessless

OK, since I’m up
eyes adjusting to the dark
barefoot grass cold clovers sung to sleep
a broad expanse of sky beckoning me
to dream awake
broad strokes curving mountain silhouettes
the old dead masters a constellation begging
homage, breath from the living
visions of cascading red hair
from the heavens halcyon days
of rusty theme rides and discarded drafts
a black canvas
jarring me loose into the night

2 thoughts on “Botticelli


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