Right of Asylum

I tuck you in, wooled,
The last stray sardine
Into Norwegian tinning,
Housed and harbored

For one more night.
Your eyelashes never
Longer than this hour,
Or cheeks so berried.

The global streetlight,
Less dazzle than gleam,
Warm as a cup of honey,
Pales ingots on your face

And struggles for corners.
It fall short of hockey
Gloves at one more drying out,
a mitt tired of winter

and the long, still nights
loosening the clutter of these days
sounding their hard languages
where debris daily piles up.

I marvel at the memories
Shared with this night;
Fifty years ago squinting
At my father’s squinting at me,

The soft moon of his face
Leaping on my woolen landscape;
His breath heavy, warm, ripe,
Like a crock full of home made beer,

His hands clumsy at adjusting
Even the thinnest of my shrouds.
I often thought he let me know,
By such ruse, he attended darkness.

I should tug at you but I won’t.
I’ll accept the moon and silence
And your lying like a submarine,
Bottomed, only dreams inside.