MIGRATION.

I fold the night around me

and I wake up in my bed of molten blue

beneath the shade of the Banyan

as I sniff the last patches of sunlight you sat in

where sometimes the light settled on you like pollen.

I’m here in your Supernova wake

thinking that the brightness will keep you safe, here

and the wind vehemently pushes the cotton sheet

running canyon along my back-

I can only think that your hands are strong

when mine are spent ripping tokens overdue

from the earth by the handful.

I fold the night around me

and I wake looking for some benign truth

as to why the earth was much bigger when I was four

when every day was forever and people like you

were blown like kisses to the stars.

I often wonder if gravity only keeps me here

or whether you’ve found yourself a better place

migrating, instinctually inside the cupboard or the sheets

so you can go in there to hide.