When I go for the evening skies
I arrive where deep-down
I already am, on the pink and orange
wavelength where thought and feeling merge,
where the currents of mind determine
a heart's flight, undulating
from the high to the low,
before settling on the darkening waters,
next to the cormorant or
the silhouettes of dusky sea-birds against
the flickering water. See
how more and more flocks
come in from the violet east
crossing the luminous skies and how
they glide softly without a noise and
without even beating their wings,
more and more swooping thoughts,
they circle the light-rippled lake,
put silent dots onto the sheath
of flickering silver,
as dots within a sentence
that are awaiting conclusions,
pending, pondering and gently
welcoming meaning: the last sunrays.
There, an array of possibilities, but always
this tang of unlaundered light
until I find it - the blood drenched hour,
when the night shakes me awake.
I suck it in, liquid spectrum,
for I am thirsty as if I went for days
carrying along someone's else's thirst
that would dry me out.
I do not think that a mouth
other than mine would blister
where I drink from the sky,
where I bite out cloud shapes, nuzzle
currents of tangible light
to my heart's soft lips, where
I taste the pure dusk, devour
darkness and find, what I came for,
in an explosion of geese, as I walk past,
that lingers on for a mile
in the sharp breath of the night.
