On Soft Sand

I was there when night split down the middle -
that sexy divide and maintain.
You know, bubble gum and
pale light and probably
Yanni on the radio.

No one was looking that time
we stabbed the moose right in the neck -
bleating and lowing and
painful white bursts in the cold.
(didn't we grieve?
didn't we talk about the funeral for days?)

You really don't know how you made
lines in the leaves,
how the ancient languages came from your fingertips.
You don't know about blue blue and early-morning-fog.

Should the magpie bring new creation?
Should the ocean give pity?
Should the salt choke you to death?

Please, let the suffering fill all the balloons and convince
the old city to shut down tight the bars
where people fall in love against pinball machines.