pruvod blaznu

we start out small
small frames small smiles
feather light kisses on your knuckles
so that the timid evening will let us in

we listen to the absurd replicas
of characters from the plays of our lives
all the world's a stage

as the night ripens, we grow bolder
the tug of time spilling towards nil o'clock, the light in your eyes
- the forecast was wrong i /am/ seeing stars, a constellation of shy possibilities and unguarded laughter -
im glad your hands are cold because i'm burning

and on the last bus home i sit
with another three nightbirds
(a nurse, a
guy asleep at the back, the driver)
with a moon in my chest,
calling for the tide