The Fifteenth of August

poems from the north, day 12

Photo by Jake Kokot on Unsplash

What should be wild
lives and breathes
in uneven rising

of quivering leaves
on fertile branches
of unread pages.

Two silent numbers
blink, begging restless
fingertips —

give me a turn,
lick once more,
work your way

one by one
through gritty sands
in the strands

of my hair. Dare
your anchor-laden
feet to stroll with me

a while
to claim the end
of this chapter.

And tell me
your heart isn’t racing
just a little more

to find out how
much further we’ll go
before palms turn black

to frame the red
moon above
our knotted-up hair

between destinies
of stars winking at us,
having known all along.

If you’d like to follow my vacation journey, there’s more below:

The Fourteenth of August