Misty rains of liquid sunshine waft across an azure ocean. Blue melds seamlessly with gray, save for occasional glimmers of definition. Machines, motors, servos whir to accompany the myna birds on their morning sojourn.

A distant jet rumbles through the clouds.

I sit on a raised plane, 20 meters above the ground.  Some call it the penthouse, but you will find none of the luxury usually associated with a penthouse here.  This is a much simpler, deeper joy compared to comforts for one’s body. Elevated here between earth and sky, I let peace take me.

Suddenly
My shadow and me break up
Through the surface of sleep
As children of sense,
A bright beating sense repeats
in our brain
in our brain
As children we ride the backs
Of large luminous pearlwhite birds
similar
singular
Flying up flying up up
We reach round necks, hold bills
Keep quiet and keep the birds
Quiet. Great
Beating flap of wings, clap
Of laundry on the laundry line, grate
Vibration in the heart of sheets,
One of us wakes completely
In the night.

Silver moon, Sirius
below. And there, Betelgeuse
winks the far black red.

Jesse breathes easy beside hot water.

Moonlight slides down the dark sky,
covers him and he lets it. Pale
Krishna blue irradiates his skin.

“I’m getting a pale, Wyatt.”
Growing older, bluer by the minute.
Faint smell of chlorine.

Moonlight smells of earth,
hot at the root.
We let it.

Steam from the hot tub exhales in clouds
toward stars. How sparkly the stars,
the midnight blue dark, the slight
blue glow shimmering off his body.

And how clear his thought,
it makes the night clear.
“Wyatt, the Racing Car Constellation!
See:
The Man in the moon is the driver,
that bright star underneath,
the rear wheel, and that blue star, way
over there, that’s
the front wheel.”

Dog star patches out,
drags a quick quarter
through Orion to the left toe
of where blue Rigel
used to be.

I hunt, I hunt
a response,
all my adult knowledge
constellated, wheeling
uselessly
around my head.

Rainbow rings shiver street lamps. Breath,
My breath, makes unfigured shapes, blown
Plaits in mistful air. Jesse scamps
Choo-choo, choo-choo down tumbledown
Damp streets trailing choo-choo smoke.
“I’m a train, choo!” a poke at quiet night.
More pokes: dogs’ harsh barks herald our way.
Behind curtained bays, quiet folk in
Incandescent light grip guns against enemies.
(One false step, we’ll put out your lights).

By and by, farther on, the lamps end.
We chug lightly, lightheartedly,
Into the future, into the dark.