Michelle Macfarlane

Burning Clouds Before the Day Ends

A black crescent moon swallowed the sides of his head
which contained entire galaxies of complexities
and standards and measures of faith.
Soothing included a bedtime story and
helping move a grand piano down a
staircase for a neighbor. A massage
was merely an uncomfortable interaction
of strange intimacy.

The earth was merely a super glued rubber ball
that bounced around and shook the
inhabitants around and up and down.

It was the good, the bit of melted cheese in a sandwich
or the laughter of tickling a daughter’s knee which
mended the useless rubber ball into
a place worth existing.
He was not a man of only simple moments.
He drove an exotic Mercedes with brown leather
seats and heated cushions for long winter drives.

A man of his word, unless he merely forgot or changed
the terms and conditions of an arrangement.

Books on history collected no dust on his shelves
as he constantly swallowed the black ink
into every pore and surface of his being.

He did not ask to be remembered by the masses
He did not want his name to span the ages.
He would survive through unanswered questions

Their path destined by a need to understand
black crescent moons that burned
clouds during daylight.

{Michelle Mcfarlane}