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.