Saturday Night Poem

Through the damp fibers of a clingy August night --
royal blue --
there is space to touch me,
lift my chin.
I plead mute as a platter moon
iced with sugar and petals,
flung and stuck to the vacuous sky.
If you just held my fingers, light as blinks,
I'd trickle over you and inhale and inhale.

I have a magic trunk inside my ribcage.
If I kissed your cheek on the Friday night train,
I'd warm you like a stone or a penny,
find doves behind your ear.
And like the doves, our bellies would purr
with all the pixie mechanisms of a succulent summer.
Eyes meeting and making lush the air between them.
Double scooped on the pier, a ferris wheel chair to my elevator,
when for an instant,
you can be whoever you want to be.