Starlings

Can I do to you what the moon
does to the tide?
that moment your face brightens with fire,
the black starlings who hide
worrying each night that the sun has died,

end of desire,

never again morning light,
we play with truth,
and with lies,
trying to balance it all on the dull
edge of a rusty knife,
shaking off a grey layer
from a dusty life,
might as well tell the story
before the details
run dry,
cross the river of your body
at low tide,
before the water gets too high,
under the dull pattern of moon light,
shore to shore,

blow that whistle, baby,
wave goodbye.

TA