Hush-hush moon on morning’s blue means it’s still
And daytime’s flashlight need not meddle;
gruelling sun can strike itself
not striking me till dawn comes,
While the smoky moon smiles still, it’s night,
and scorching colour can’t touch me,
and sinking feelings needn’t sink
into the province of the snubbed.
Tellies vibrant in the basements
words are louder ’cause they’re whispered;
grin and wink at red wine’s legs and
clinky dink; please pass the aura.
You cannot walk in shoes like those,
on kisses still to come,
where tranquil shacks up gladly
in the shadows placed on stone-cold stones,
well-lit by evening’s fortifying twinkle.
Soft to touch
and rounder than well-licked ice cream,
morning moon will say this is
a seamless, perfect day—
since it’s still
© 2017 Matt Chamberlain
Drifter poet: from Lancashire to Wales to London to Kent; words a constant. Published pastoral-performance-page poet and festival laureate.