Strung between
two hollowed birches
enwrapped in some forest,
a day’s escape from
metropolis waste,
imported trees,
and swarming tourists.
Our hammock shivers,
cast gray by cloud cover.
Above and beyond
the stratus sheets hover
our sun and our moon,
one drifting
toward the other.
Soon, the moon,
with its shard-smattered face,
will blot out sun plumes
and firey rays.
So we, hanging beneath
blankets of rain, wait for nightfall
in the middle of day.
When the dimming begins,
we curl closer, furling like flowers,
subdued to slow whispers.
The woods hush too,
dusk-drunk, confused
as wool skies shift to
witching hour blue.
At this moment,
Helios and Selene meet
with precise alignment.
At this moment, we bathe
in absolute darkness, save
for the wine ring of
pseudo-sunset staining
the horizon.
Your hand grips my hand,
and we spend
three minutes in
stunned solidarity.
But for me,
the celestial kiss
is eclipsed
by my soul’s
sudden state
of totality.
pm poetry 