Off-Hours

An empty room jostling with space,
lit by the city and the stars.
Brubeck and his quartet taking five
minutes of contemplation,
thoughts freeing thoughts
to construct using constraints.
Fingers glinting under moonlight
like your bones against darkness,
solace rewriting time signatures
from metronome interiors.
Midnight transcended,
smiles escape windows
to become light pollution.
Walls will reverberate
emotions singing in the shower.
Silence returns as a lover,
whispering sweet nothings,
listening to how
you are static.

Sandbox Yearn

There is a sidewalk,
waiting for shoes while
I try to hear another pair.

Who will sparkle in moondust?

I disperse clouds with inertia
that tends towards anything, but
love is friction.

There is a city composed in
beams of starlight, within them
a window of distraction –
Of future lovers,
their quavers.

Can I improvise my desire,
to share a cloud,
in the entropy of my cells?

Anyone that wants to measure
the transparency of space
by my flickering eyes.

For a Lover in Andromeda to Parse

I am in the ice, leaning against Ray Charles’
piano. The keys are monochrome and sharp,
within them a vacuum I must cross to
allow you to hear his fingers, the ones that
help me forget loneliness. He died before Voyager 1
found her courage to enter termination shock;
I told her that it was okay, your memory of Earth
golden among elder stars that have forgotten their
records. Like them, I have thrashed papyri to vinyls
to DNA storages to unlearn love, just to hear your
pulsar in my direction, a dense heartbeat in static.
Billions of years in songs of our destined galaxies,
but this coma eclipses my instruments to see the
creases of your slumber in the fabric of space-time.
Love is the entire Universe between pixels, where
i’ll miss you by millions of light years, just to find myself.