Suppose her eyes were wet,
and the moon was blue, and

fish laid coins at our bare feet.
Terrifying mystery, wondering

how fast a boat tomorrow
rides in, gliding forever across

a glass sea of drowned yesterdays.
We stood at the shore and waved

at thin cranes dark against the horizon,
like music notes on a purple staff.

Some memories are trapped in amber,
others in broken glass, and I can’t recall

those days, and I shouldn’t, because I
put them there. Sometimes we cut our

feet looking for gold. Suppose love is a memory
of unity, and some of us cannot remember.

Suppose her eyes were blue, and the fish
were wet, and the moon laid bright coins

at our bare feet. Fantasy is just reality on its
head. But either way, tonight is for the amber.