We sat on the grass as the moon finished
its operatic passage across the sun.
We’d clapped our hands in delight;
then we went home, put away the dark
glasses, folded the cereal boxes
with pinholes into recycling bins.
The leaves of the willow finished
filtering hundreds of trembly, crescent-
shaped lights on the ground. That night,
did you wake as I did from dreams
of bridges falling into the sea, waves
building up, temples deliriously burning?
Did sweat pool in the small of your back?
I too have an old ache that doesn’t quite
go away. I stand at the kitchen window
looking up at the emptying branches. If I
could brighten whatever is tinted blue
with sadness in the world tonight,
I’d give up the cool side of my pillow.
I’d wade through streets filled with water
to bear away who I could in my arms.
In response to Via Negativa: Carnival.