that rises from the sea
disguised by streets, houses we like,
walkable shopping areas. Every
night, when we lay down in our beds
we make a pattern of bodies
laid out on a slope
disguised by the houses and streets and relatively
empty spots of the shopping areas,
and parks, where not as many sleep. Its us, the houses,
the beds, and the ground that is sloped. The houses and
beds let us hover over it. Sometimes some of us
are away traveling, sleeping other places
or having company, having more sleepers in our areas. That's the variation
in our pattern. Occasionally
new permanent addition. Baby. The fiancé from Chicago
who moved here, for you.
Every night, its a pattern, and in the
quietest part, say 3:12am, when the
pattern is its most formed, and still, we
peel away from our bodies, and skim down the slope
and go out far over the sea
and hold our collective pose, presenting our permutation that night
to the blind skin of the rolling sea
to anything below, that might be looking up,
and see our moonlit outline.
In the morning, we break ranks, and move freely
you there, spot D54, in our grid, now standing in front of me
awaiting your latte, and you
spot L271, whom I stop for to let cross the
street, whose long
nightgown hem I saw touch the surface of the ocean
last night, is the reason you're crossing
here now, to go buy detergent, for laundry day.
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