After The Night Clouds

Last night, we got drunk on Indiana Jones
racing through the underbelly of temples,
breaking gods and errant priests with his whip 
then hurtling home afterwards 
as a mist hung over the moon.

We fell asleep dreaming of adventure, 
holding each other against the fear 
of never being able to fly again. 

In the morning, we are exhausted, soaked from 
the summer sun trapped overnight in tarmac.
I am steeped in stillness,
pretending to be nothing more than river.
The blanket lifts the top of the current,
foghorns out at sea are lonelier than ever.

The fan spins as fast as it can without 
tearing off and flying somewhere else. 
We have nowhere to go; 
it is too early to be full of frustration,
so we become tongues of cool water,
slip our skins through the window,
past the last of the night clouds. 

Where do bodies end? 
Do we return to god 
or become, valleys we’ve yet to see?

I hold you like a dam holds back 
the edge of an ocean, now we dance 
against the silhouette of songbirds,
now we are dissolving into air.

Be my hummingbird, my long kiss, 
be my electric way home.
Let me tell you the same story
with a different ending every single time.

Author: Marc

Creative educator. Sometime photographer. Fiddler of words.