Clair de Lune

Nightfall, nightfall, the blackbirds 
call, or black petals call, their voices
like the bottoms of black socks. 

Beneath their calling, a river 
full of clocks not ticking,
like a child full of time. 

An icy flower, slightly shy, the moon 
has turned away her one-thousand 
-and-first face. 
Until she has dried 
her tears, she won’t speak to us.

Listen. Gulls cry in the salt breeze
like souls wrapped in handkerchiefs. 

Waves roll their black tongues
over the sandy back of a beach, 
over the mind of a child who dreams 
of small moons on the sand 
and a blue room in the sea. 

Love, you are the sea 
seeking the attention 
of a single oyster. 
In me, you’ve lodged all the notes
and a grain of sand. 

You touch the black keys. You touch
the black keys inside me
and I pearl.