Turning of Dusk
Somewhere between the view from the broken skylight
and the boisterous riddle of barely night
I sleep.
It's a view of stars, both shooting and fixed
with the tissue of clouds in a wisp, betwixt
to morning.
The air has fingers too cold and crisp
for the eyes to see
for my skin to spin
so I wrap up in down, crunching a grin
of wonder.
To dream of the movement that the earth is on
with me swaying sleepy to gravity's song
is soothing.
To wake to a vision to sharpen the eyes
with pin pricks of silver on black as it flies
is spacial.
And somewhere between my laughing stars
and the silence of you, whoever you are
gravity's dreams become my own
to be flown through a broken skylight,
at the turning of dusk to midnight.
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