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Tryst Poetry by PJ Nights |
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Tryst Poetry by PJ Nights |
| Diamond Island |
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all is flat, spectral - a shore of two dimensions paved in skipping stones perfect to catch an edge of sky we tread lightly on ancestors and their leavings - periwinkles and razor clams, bits of rubbed glass, all that remains of Dr. Flint’s Quaker Bitters, Grandma Rose’s soup tureen our fingers intertwine to hold still the hours - freeze them at the beginning of time where we lay on our backs, our love-making done, gazing up at a spill of milk across lampblack; last night’s moon was ever more substantial than this wafer-thin sun which hangs by a wire these hours we’d trade only that domestic sounds from cottages in precarious perch along the cliff be ours together: the rhythmic creak of four-posters to Saturday morning’s irreverent prayers, percolators and hissing bacon, the sharp report of clothes-pinned sheets in the wind the Great Skua, robber gull drops from the clouds to snatch meals out of others' mouths; he's too far south and must go home as must we to our families, rich but impoverished - limited by what we can carry on our backs, our pockets reserved for stale scones from the B&B, and skipping stone keepsakes
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