Inside Evening’s Shirt

Evening is the moment

                                                                when all that disappears

doesn’t anymore

 When behind his closed eyes,

from underneath the orange 

crushed  by his cowboy boot,

the veil hiding everything lifts

and kisses the scooting hay bale moon with such pull,

with such mud-red crow hopping,

such ear popping corn husk listening,

such cloud muck-raking,  his river bending music

over the side of their bed

(evening and the moon have the same hip bones)

That the storm of her worsens, eats  roofs

throws houses in mid-air like parties but is kept still

inside him,

in the dervish needle  

of all the unseen-now-seen of him

Inside her haystack.

Inside him, is the skein of her dreams

She makes his shirt of clouds

She knows where to touch him

to make to make Evening’s breathing blue, thick with open,

big cat mouth,

his belly on hers

His boots thrown, but carefully

like the triple monk stars on heaven’s feet

The careful perfect word of god’s poem 

on his wing tipped tongue.

Oh, but it’s she that is

when all that disappears doesn’t

and all that is invisible isn’t any longer

The moon is more evening than Evening

She reflects his true blue self that she kissed into being,

everything unspoken on her lips,

she plays

the music of all that disappears in his eyes

and reappears under her fingers

inside his shirt         

The cello of the dark world inside, the un-disappear-able of him

played by her unveiled light,

her fingers,

her lips,

her isn’t any longer