Little Sickle is shining again!
The last time I saw it shine this bright
I was a lighthouse
In a high walled flat
My rooms they turned with a shadow
I crawled under blankets
Horded myself for a moment
I wouldn’t know it until it found me
So I waited there
Wrapped tight with a book of poems and a torchlight
Like a child reading about cowboys and the Great West
I made promises to go out there someday
Outside my window, the clouds ran buffalo around rooftops
John Wayne was pushing herds past the moon
Giving them life
Making them bold
He the ever technicolour relic in a peach scarf and midnight blue shirt
All six shooters and tin stars.
Me and John, we had an understanding
He kept them buffalo moving nice and slow
And I would throw him the occasional word or two when he came by
Usually he ended up with the unfinished poems in his saddle bags
I thought this to be a good deal most nights.
Sometimes the way I yawn
Reminds me of nothing but a bear
Shaking water and fish scales and the colour orange
My fur flowing as if holding hands with the movement
I shine bright
Little sickle isn’t the jealous type though
She lets me pretend to be like her
In these moments I am a streetlamp playing at constellation
While she spends her days making music of vacancy
At night she carves suburban streets empty
Except for fox dancing and bark moaning.
There are nights when little sickle and I dance a mean jig
Others where we talk slow
Still more where we walk in silence.
In the arms of the city
I daydream about the mountains we all came down from
The oceans we climbed up from
Little sickle kisses these thoughts like a child healing playground bruises
We know these dreams will one day outlive us all
So we watch them grow
Shining all the while.