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feels out of date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 7^th street

in the dripping heat

past girls sitting in cafes

talking back

to their hallucinations

and laughing

with heads thrown back.