The curtain lifts in amazement
that the sea would move it, breathy
and salted over my face,
over my worshipping face.
Still, I lie here as the day goes
silent against the horizon,
pink blood like pierced lungs,
like lungs pierced by beauty.
The curtain brushes first
the sill, then my hair, retreats
as if it went too far, too close,
closer than a first kiss should dare.
The day, dying by inches in the sea,
won’t tell of kissing or blood
as it goes. Still, as night waits
to raise its white eye, I sing down the day.
The curtain stills its shadow, waits
for the next sun to find it again. Dark
ghosts go by in the wind, sigh
for love of a day that could not stay.