I’ve loved you all my waking life.
and it’s rare like atmospheric
crystal rainbow clouds, in the night
catching the moon’s light. Called moon-dogs.
Though rareness isn’t a good sign –
rare diseases are rare, okay,
but I’m trying to find something
like a mock moon has its anchor –
I see your hesitancy through
your 22° halo –
Could we after all have found more
in others. Could is a puzzle,
and I’ve loved you, my waking life.
The tautology has my throat –
like a jet necklace. And the joy
you bring me has long years in it.
We are vintage. We can say that,
and others cannot. Exclusive
isn’t necessarily good,
okay… But the world falls away
when you laugh, or you say my name.
And that’s not good either, okay,
or is it. You are my chapel!
my holy book! my holiday!
In the background things pass away
making a noise like dark fire
crackling. We go around nudging
remains into the embers with
our feet. There, fragments of wire lie
structures once rocked back and forth. Life
burns and brings sadness. The brambles
are so green but in the fire, lines
of red-gold crisp light steam and curl
around the blackening leaves. Feel
the substance behind beliefs fall
away and reveal the golden
embers and their heat that can sting,
as the smoke curls up around you
wherever you walk round the flames.
On the drive home, it turns out that
the universe conspired to build
Nick Drake so he could soundtrack this
night. I feel complete in the car,
with the moon, moon, moon, moon, and me.
As I turn the corner to home,
I see the subtle moon, pink haze.
The record sleeve hangs in the real.