Twilight bolted to the carpet.

No 'over there,' but haze spilling
from the sill into geodesics
of aqua and magenta,
touching off a blaze as bright as St. Elmo's,
as a Japanese Iris, as cold
as the moon's surface, asking
"May I reach down, touch
your face, your lips...?"

Tonight we sail for Callisto
across Pleiades' burning embers
down Ganymede's valleys and crests,
where tiaras of moonstones blossom
at our feet and the morning stars
leaves vespers of night in your hair.

Younger now, our new skin, smooth, reflective
crosses new terrain, fills our hearts,
our minds; gaze up

and you are reading Alcott
the "little women" of manner and poise,
the mother-daughter swaying in a hammock
of sleep-eyed leisure, (as reason can,
as reason does) gaze-up

and you are quoting Rousseau,
the joie de vivre of a tawny madeira,
music from a love letter, lines from an aria;
a passion singing, laughing, swinging. . .steady now!

Callisto, we head to Callisto
where yesterday's tears and tonight's
dream finds your purse and keys,
where forever, for a little time,
a chill's deja vu exhorts you to
know me, want me, love me,
gaze up.


Copyright © David Hunter Sutherland, 1999.  All Rights Reserved.