Sea of Serenity

Thirty-four thousand feet above me
on a flight bound for tomorrow
an old man nods off
and dreams of the poet
he used to be
writing only by the light
of this full moon.
He wears a daisy on his lapel
and he looks a lot like me.

Thirteen feet to my right
and three years ago
the woman who broke my heart
just twitched
signaling deep sleep.
She will dream of nothing
but shattered glass.

Three inches from my nose
is a sliding door
beyond it, my balcony
and past that, a night
seething with possibilities.
That plate glass door
is fogged with the songs
I would have sung
if I'd been given
the gift of tongues
instead, I draw a heart
which fades even as I watch it.
Chill air radiates
from that indifferent glass
goosebumps take flight
and the moon
she saunters so low
barely modest beyond
her silky veil of clouds
wearing a pale moonbow crown
like a silver halo.
Only she isn't Christian.
A much more ancient temptation
calling on her priestesses
to sew the earth with tears
of smitten men
that weird vines might grow
like mathematical theories
and blossom stinking platinum daisies
of Art, and Genius, and Poetry
to be sewn in her hair
as consolation
when Dawn slips yet another
bright knife between her ribs.

Thirty four thousand feet beneath me
the Earth has resigned himself
to another billion years
of magma heartburn
Oh, that moon' out
prowling again tonight.

On the balcony rail
my potted plants
know only moon and moisture.
Dreaming of daybreak
like I dream of an honest kiss.
Silhouetted prickly and succulent
against the dim-lit
clapboard Victorian wall next door
wishing the Earth
would just spin faster.

I watch the plants growing
and the clouds wheeling
and the houses awaiting earthquakes
and meditate here
on a small blue rug
knowing She is asleep
in the other room.
Not my ex-girlfriend
of three years past
or some stranger
I've lured upstairs
with promises of daisies
but a vast kind of She
who wears the face of my future.
I know this with the same
animal instinct
that can hear glass shatter
in a dream three years ago.
And my animal tells me
that I should be asleep in bed beside her
matching my dreaming with hers
composing a bright mosaic of children
and unconscious until
the rough handshake of day.
Yet the wide-eyed mystic of me
begs for another moment
demands another chance
to witness that veil of clouds parting
to memorize the moon's name
and to carry her
like a cool secret
into the hot forgetful morning.

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