by Marianne Szlyk
I walked out with you to watch
August evening turn into September night,
Hydrangea and maple trees become
coral and sea anemones
beneath the watery night.
The lights in the window
flutter off like petals,
float for a while, and
as if beneath calm waves.
At six am, the night’s tide
pulls away from the city.
The sky dries. The clouds,
like sea foam on sand, stick to the sky.
Hydrangeas and maples return to form, then color.
Starlings and seagulls rend someone else’s sleep.
We straggle home in the clear, serious morning.
In front of dry, muted bricks the color of used textbooks,
we uncouple. You go to work.
Alone in the window, with an anthology in my lap,
I watch the day come to Beacon Street,
separating us, separating everything.
* This poem originally appeared in Poetic Space, circa 1987 and under another title.
Marianne Szlyk lives in the Washington, DC suburbs without a car and likes to walk in the city, so the name of this press appeals to her. Her poems have appeared in Of/with, Pyrokinection, Aberration Labyrinth, The Blue Hour, The Camel Saloon, and Poppy Road Review as well as in several anthologies by Kind of a Hurricane Press. She hopes that you will consider submitting a poem or two to her fall contests at The Song Is..:
http://thesongis.blogspot.com/2014/09/welcome-to-fall-contests-part-1.html and http://thesongis.blogspot.com/2014/09/welcome-to-fall-contest-part-2.html