The Hours After Midnight

The hours after midnight
I wander through the dark
doing nothing
but missing the empty spaces
between my fingers
and the feel of mystery
between the curve of my foot
and the promise of everything.

How is it possible to extract desire
from this exquisite blue of alone
in a bed not big enough for two?

And yet,
I fly so close to these flowers,
I can’t help but collect their pollen in my hair
and taste the sticky trembling on my breath.

All day I feel the hands of restlessness brush lightly
along the length of my arm
and where they land firmly on my hips
to steady my blurred vision.

And tomorrow the full moon rises
and lifts herself onto the canvas of the teacher
where she waits for the dialogue of the oldest lovers
and the careful instruction to begin.

Even the ocean cannot resist the tide on this shore
and the beautiful music she sings softly
into the ear of the one who insists
on opening his eyes at the first kiss.

What I would give for the morning
to spare me and to release the children of these ghosts
who have settled like August fog
under the shutters of my busy mind.