Night Sky
By Paul Cameron Brown
I can call a lake a kettle
a splendid, ivory comb a snare-
tiny feet cataclysms off a mountain.
the night sky my ariel home.
Nothing matters with my heart at my ribs
a collarbone of doubt
inching into my anatomy
Everest-wide.
surging canals into my throat.
I am a pianist plying my trade
playing to waves-
the wharf and pier
passionate onlookers
entranced with joy.
sailors wearing blond caps
in stout approval
their tall ships wavy as decorative pins.
smashed bottles accumulated days at sea
lapping the dock.