by pedro pinon gregorio
at the doorway we wait for midnight to collect itself.
half-naked stars cling to the eve of branches and leaves.
sparkle the tiled roof, wet from dry rain and dying dews.
we talk the hour like shadows from the absent sun,
our voices hushed and heading for the courtyard
to a dark corner of dreams that lurk inside darkened rooms.
we keep the silence, the way we keep our bodies touching,
in trances against shafts of light from the house bulb.
we shield our stories from the harshness of the pale,
finding tenderness in a sea of shades and awnings.
we stretch ourselves, still glued to the ground for
a vertigo of comfort and a sudden spasm of quietness.
we might as well be in a beach house, waiting
for the sun to resurrect from the other side of the ocean,
while the soft wind wings for a shore to settle,
and tired foot prints are washed away by weary waves.
we might as well have been listening to the sea,
making love to rocks, as it pushes forward delicately,
breaking its glass heart into a tiny spray of pebbles.
but we are here, by the doorway, in a new home.
we wait, like midnight waiting for dawn to collect itself.