and who was I at midnight?
Your throat on firewater, swallowing
baggy, flabby tongues.
It is no matter,
tonight is seven hundred stories high
and I am ready to jump. Before I do, though,
I remember you
and sitting on your lap,
your heavy gunman.
The moon has a chain on it,
this I never told you,
I put it there myself, several years ago.
It lingers patiently, sleepily awaiting me,
tied up and braced for thunder.
I will come pounding from the top
of your world, the last one I was shown,
up seven hundred staircases
to attach myself to the moon.
I have a long connection from brain
to chest, in gentle condition,
you were always soft,
not like this scratched metal chain
stabbing in to thin purple veins, on purpose,
A reminder that it is always just after midnight,
no matter what anyone says.
The moon has a chain on it / … I put it there myself – I love the concept – what a talent you have Maggie
🙂 Polly!! My nights are always so wonderful when I hear from you. I am so happy you are still around. Familiar faces make me feel more comfortable when I am alone. Thank you friend!
I really like this…swings out at the edge of easy comprehension, but does it well.
Thanks for reading Tony, and for your comment.
stunning…I love your blog!
I love the title.