Zero Gravity

The astronaut is dreaming of the Earth in zero gravity.

Tucked in the weightlessness of space, he free floats

across the cabin and softly bounces against the walls.

 

He is dreaming of old alleyways and of older nightclubs

and of the girl he left back in the city a few million miles

away. She is lovely. It is night time and she is looking

 

at the stars, wondering what it feels like to sleep alone

in the sky. It feels like it is never morning, he would tell

her. It feels a little cold but the weather is not that bad.

 

The astronaut is awake. He rubs his eyes and dreams

of rain._

Sunset

Love, I am forgetful of turtles

and of the loneliness of flutes.

At sunset, remind me of planting

pebbles on our side of the moon._

Gravity

We spent our evenings afloat under the stars,

quietly drifting across auroras. This was before

you were lonely. This was before you left

for the rest of the world. Now, elsewhere

 

in the atmosphere, I am afraid that I too have

grown fond of gravity, of the Earth, of the down

-ward spindrift of streetlights. Love, I am fearful

that when I finally fall, I will whisper your name

 

far too often, far too many times until all my breath

escapes me and I disappear completely before I hit

the ground._

Earshot

Every time I search the radio

for a love that refuses gravity,

I hear how everybody hurts

 

for bluer jukeboxes and lonelier

afterhours in this part of the city.

Always, I am on verge of forgiving

 

the coyness of feeling in every

cloying cliché, and that humdrum

chorus that makes for romance

 

and music these days. One day,

I will have my heart broken and like

an olden photograph, I will confess

 

my life in measures of light and lost

time. Someday my sadness would be

for real. Everything would be for real —

 

colder mornings, greyer skies, quiet

ancient sunsets. Love, out of habit,

would be something to sing about

 

under the bad weather. While rain

becomes another lullaby laid down

in endless lines of water._

Nocturne

I listen to the sky speak of tenderness

in a dialect dappled with stars. I listen

to trees talk eagerly of cooler winds

 

and true love among everything else

that is awfully missed in this part of town.

Like an ancient thief prying for the word

 

that reveals Earth for all its treasures,

I listen so I can learn about the night

and its most careful gestures so when

 

it is my turn to speak I can say – Yes,

the world insists on darkness and difficult

magic. And yes, there is music to ease us

 

in our sleep. In my dreams, I learn of time

as the heartbeat of angels spoken with

indelicate accents of light, and although

 

I have yet to offer what little I have left

of prayer, I keep my fingers unfurled,

my palms open to promises of better days

 

and lovelier afterhours. Yes, let us talk of love.

Let us talk of prayer. Let us talk of things

we have yet to offer. Because when this part

 

of town slowly yields slowly to slumber,

it will be to the drone of rainclouds drifting

over a thousand fluorescent flowers._

Art of Water

There must be an art to the sadness of water

in the way dewdrops fall lightly on flowers,

in the quietness of clouds when they gather

rain, in the impulse of umbrellas to resist

 

the sodden weather. There must be tenderness

come the hour when rooftops break under

the weight of a storm. And when the sky turns

electric, there must be resolution, a method of,

 

a point to being broken. Someday, I would want

to discover a country underwater from inside

a submarine made of paper. I think I would want

to stay there, spend my days lazily with the fishes

 

and my nights, utterly stargazed and sprawled

on the ocean floor. Until then, I wish to chart

the courses that our teardrops take and trace

every landscape of affection we have kept

 

below the surface for far too so long, now forgotten

and ancient as artifacts inside shelves of ice, things

once familiar in another world, in another time._

Consolation

If we must relearn tenderness,

I will ask you to forget all things

permanent. Have the maps we keep

on our palms rubbed off so that trees

stay unmarked, stones remain unturned,

and geographies of good luck, love,

and rain become uncharted parts

of the universe. If we must insist

 

on warmth, I will ask you to forget

all things that permit forgiveness

so light and prayer don’t die on us

like fingernails, promises don’t grow

like sleep — unhurried, unnoticed —

and stars don’t dare fall without

meaning or magic. Come the end of it

 

all, I hope to find you scavenging

for sunflowers on the outskirts

of a rainbow, wearing nothing

but your wings and dented halo.

I hope we never run out of things

to say to each other. Say, how

we have come to understand

what the world is made of after

 

all — Earth and all its complexities,

heaven and all its sadness, splendour

and all things that make for mystery.

Listen. If you listen close enough

to the clockwork of olden love songs

you will hear its metal pulse beating

steadily against our bodies, against

the weather, against everything under

 

the sun, as though its many hands

keep count of every second we spend

before we come to our senses. If

we really must come to our senses,

I will ask you to forget all things

beautiful. If you ask for a reason,

I will tell you – I have lost

 

my reflection in the wreckage

of water. If you ask for help,

I will say — let dewfall settle

at the tips of your lashes.

If you ask for consolation, I will

have you know – our shadows press

through the gaps of stained-glass

windows. We are quick and strange

like the beginning of sorrow. _ 

Lullaby

Of every prayer

I keep for good luck —

tonight, a tenement

rooftop, clear weather,

some peace and quiet,

if it’s not too much

to ask — tonight,

I ask if the flipside

of my pillow can stay

cool for a little

longer, the moon,

be a little fuller,

and vagrant angels

be more graceful

across the atmosphere

in this part of town.

(If only heaven surveys

this part of the planet

at all times, and there

is enough music to sing

to the spheres.)

Even if it’s common

courtesy to close

my eyes and say

good night, I will roll

out of bed and walk

across auroras

come afterhours

and keep count of cars

that pass by under

my side of the hemisphere.

Sleep will come to me

like a stranger

and I will be charmed.

But for now, I think

of how ancient dreaming

feels like. Somewhere,

a newborn star catches

fire for the first time,

an alien satellite

sails past the shadows

of starlight, meanwhile,

a dinosaur lands

the perfect somersault

under the summer sun,

pressing prehistoric

footprints on the face

of the Earth as it circles

its part of the universe

with its great olden orbit

utterly undisturbed._

Arbitrary

First, let me tell you that the namelessness

of things bothers me and that, if only I could,

there is nothing in this world I would leave

anonymous.

 

Surely, the nakedness of paper cranes

could use a name, as well as everything else —

the secret sadness of half-open doors,

the flimsy spread of moonlight that rests

on rooftops, the absence of snowfall

on my part of the globe.

 

I am fearful for the sugary red fruit

that grows on tree tops, for the remnants of rain

-water that clog the streets after a storm,

for the nugget of a stone that’s discretely

thrown against the bedroom window.

 

There is a limbo of namelessness that grows

under my breath, and when it reaches

the tip of my tongue, I fear that it will get me

alone and leave me without a word for apple,

or flood, or pebble, and that while I’m at a loss

for words,

 

the world will prove to be too unfamiliar

to live in, too estranged from everything

I know of – the night music that escapes

the sinuous walls of a saxophone, twilights

that offer more compassionate configurations

of stars,  the unbroken

 

entirety of meanings that speaks entirely

of words — angel, necklace, radio —that speak

of other words — heaven, gift, piano —

that speak of every word that refuses

meaning — love._

Inside the Raincloud

You came up to me

inside the raincloud,

a couple of storms back,

and asked me of secrets

that only the sky and I

know of. I remember

telling you a handful

 

of stories like how lightning

is a few flimsy strings

that broke from the harps

of angels, how gardens grow

between the colors of a rainbow ,

how the moon really is

an island made of haloes.

 

It was a good talk. I remember

holding your hand as we walked

slowly towards that corner

where you gave me a kiss

and refused to say goodbye.

I remember watching you

step inside that single raindrop

that brought you back

to your part of the world

where you became part

of the flood once more._