The Whippoorwill and The Window

There's a room, I think, where she exists; where she is she alone in bare truth. Where a bath is drawn and no curtains block the moon. Where she looks to the streetlight, the moon mottled leaves; where she remembers him, and is silent in summer still. He wonders of the room and of its power. Of the towel and of her lean.
If only he had wings to fly and a right to do so. But he has neither.




I flew beside the whippoorwill
because she ruled the night
she took me to the edge of sin
that skirts the edge of light

the way was lit
by smokeless adder
while slipping curtains
coloured true,
I sought to find a bed of green
but only found the failed blue

her call became
my perfect sight
my weakness shown
within her plume,
she landed me upon the sill,
I felt the steam of water rise
from deep within the lighted room

she looked to dark
and forest green
and I to yellow's secret shown
each of us being drawn away
to the things we once had known

her shadowed green
that played the roof
and tickled the frozen pane
masked my impropriety
and hid my tears of shame

at last, the yellow light went dim
the forest green went still
she called to me
and I followed her
from the lifeless
windowsill

but now, I find
twas only a dream
a thought but never true
I walked beneath the nighted green,
stood beneath the pale light,
and
she called
as if she knew

~rick