Compression

If only we could shake the world
and neither of us would miss it,
then the translucent gold might
shine like eyes, blue bright.
But here we are, only able to hide
from it for a while, releasing our doves
to the cold, compressed night.

I’ve been trying for many invisible months
to not show you my hands too soon.
I’ve been waiting for many invisible months
for the thunder of the monsoon.
It’s falling on me now that all of my excuses
are sounding so out of tune.

I’ve been trying to hide the starlight from the moon.

Our hands are empty,
calloused, with odd tan lines,
proof that there was once sunlight before.
But even when evening comes to the door,
asking for our latest works of art,
our hands remain empty.
The fangs of the future are bared.
I doubt anyone is as prepared
as they expect themselves to be.

There are those who lose sleep:
To kill desire, to replay
all the secrets of their day,
to hear the water slam
against a wayside cliff.
And others simply wish to keep
whatever stake they might have
deep within the ground.
But looking at them now,
there is no telling who’s been around.
The smart sound stiff.
The tired seem wrong.
The only thing I’m sure of
is that fractal star
spinning in your eye,
but I never see it for very long.

So bring me all your troubles;
lay them down next to mine.
Then rest through the night
and let our secrets go untold:
only then will I ever be able
to turn all this mercury into
gold.