Telepathic starlings told me here name, as they dived and swirled in a blue and cherry morning.
Her name, on her heart and the rays of the warming sun, and the defiantly reflective moon now.
A name can made a god in troubled time, an icon in the dark of a room, privacy of a song in headphones.
Walking in the still cool morning, the ripening morning becoming the flower of youth as I pass old places
where the war in heaven was fought and lost, and only a unstable and desperate moment believed won,
years later, years after the scare were permanent and the wings clipped, only seeds remaining to flower.
She might be there, at the end of the road, tree lined and by fenced in fields gone fallow, as birds starve.
She might be a friend, but I want only that, though I want her as lover and wife, I must turn away that dream.
Tips buy time and the illusion of light, but I cannot touch the real light now, having fallen so far, so far below the ground.
And her name makes the nights full of words and paradises constructed from imaginings desperate, sweet and mad.
These worlds the name opens up will suffice, as I wait for the hangman and the stillness that pleads for me.
The stillness in the night, we’re music stops, and dreams can’t be bothered, and sleep is a drug of no import.
