By Kirsten Miles

It’s raining tonight and I’m hurrying home.

People are gathered outside the shops waiting for it to

stop.

But the rain keeps pressing its nose to the pavement

 

the water alchemises light,

 

both the moon and the heart

are orbiting, turning, things

 

both have patches of

dryness and nectar,

bays of vapours and tides,

songs of dew and tempests,

tender and tough,

parts to chew.

 

tonight,

lunar craters and

valves, scatter, assemble,

accumulate. in warm, glowing,

homes,

under the bedside light.

I press my nose against the night.

the darkness gives birth to violets.

endless violets,

 

endless nights.

 

I scrape my knee on the pavement as I run

in from the rain

and the gash lets

starlight in.

at the end, if someone says I didn’t leap far enough,

I’ll show them the pavement I landed on.

the perennial nightflowers that peek from

its cracks and creases,

celestial cavities.

And if they say I didn’t fly high enough,

I’ll point to my heart and say

I saw all

the full

moons