Sand falls out of the sky like rain and we talk
to the moon simply because we speak the same
language. In this graceful menagerie our tongues
touch like silk gloves drawn over manicured hands;
looking back into the sky it all seems to belong
to Venus, poised symmetrically above the crescent moon.
The projectionist falls asleep at his post and the reel
unspools while a beam of white light cuts a swathe
straight through the darkness. We were going to watch
Lancaster on the beach with Kerr in “From Here
to Eternity” but we came too late; the day ended for
the tourist dragging a cigarette on an archipelago.
To prolong this glorious madness means descending at
midnight to drink, like a pagan from forbidden streams.