A City In My Palm

The simple beige colour that inhabits leathery arthritis and tea from her favorite mug
is cast across the cityscape in a succession of darling little lights,
peering out the window to impose upon a skyline
tinted with liquid dreams
A moon made from the material that encompasses and curves to a silken back,
clothed in firm skin like the swig of a bottle, the swish of a feather

Far away the tomes look blocky and harsh,
etched upon them warnings to avert one’s eyes

Yet you know the whispers of water on stone
beings suspended high above water
tripping over one another in a sequence of forgotten thoughts

Domestication is far from theirs, civilization thrown to the afterthoughts of wind
by night they shout secrets into the stars, whispering to treasure and guard them always
by day they sleep in dreamless disarray
fabric gathers and pulls at soft flesh and hair sprawled onto pillows,
lights lowered to minimize the golden glow
fortress as empty as the rain that whistles through it
they are unaware when soul meets body of a different world,

These inhibitions are banned . . .