There is a festival of lights over the filthy bog
but I turn my eyes away.
Flies hover over a festering sore;
I shoo them aside and
inexplicably
they do not return.
And then I know
what it is
that I must know:
Is the foam of the sea thicker at night?
Do the sizzling bubbles last longer
marooned there on the sand
when the moon is full?
Someone tell me.
Don’t google it, for heaven’s sake!
For the love of God,
don’t swim the high tide
with your graduation gowns on!
Just tell me. Now.
I am standing naked on the bridge tonight
looking out over a river of purple ink
with my back to the sea.
But I hear her dull thud,
I hear her suck and her lisp,
how she drowns the moaning thunder
in her forgotten heart.
And I must know.
If not, I will have no
choice but to
jump…
… or to wait
for this fever to ebb.
And if on leaving, the fever makes
the same seething sound as the sea
when she recedes,
then I will know.
I will not have to jump.
Tell me.
I must know. Now.
© Lorenzo — Alchemist's Pillow
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