On a Clear Night

On a clear night,
we could hear an echo
of the future’s prophets
in between the trees
that creak like
opening doors to heaven
who sat coincidently curvy
right besides us
whispering sweet secrets
into our blazing eyes
even though our third breaths
were still set to the
metronome machine
that banged on and
the grandfather clock
feels out of date
so he slumps back to his bed
with that kind of hangover
one gets from
making it through another
sunset to sunrise.

I was in my own good green graces
picking prickly problems
out of the jars
in your cupboard
and singing out
“Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”
to the drunks
walking up on 7th street
in the dripping heat
past girls sitting in cafes
talking back
to their hallucinations
and laughing
with heads thrown back.

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