Portland

The cobalt evening is dressed in oil lamps

soft flames and

bright eyes that race and smile

over crashing oceans with

whispers and rolling thunder booms.

That old beacon swings out there

over the bay like a pendulum,

the lamplighter tends the torch—

he’s a ghost now, but your palm is warm

and your hair is dark

and your heels click when we run

down cobbled streets

past fireplace windows.

We dance

the tango under a yellow moon

like it’s our wedding night.

Whirling with you, past floating docks and brick

facades, with night air that tastes like salt.

Where are we if not here?

Getting drenched in a sunset squall

with you and

feeling the room spin

with you and

watching the candle burn, with you.

Your palm is warm and your hair is dark

and we are home.

Moonlight, by Childe Hassam