Invisible Things

Sitting on a patio with a friend on a hot
June day drinking pints of Wellington IPA
and after a few he doesn’t seem to notice,
as I do, sunlight spreading on the table,
or appearing in the chair between us, you.
Men become drunk in different ways.
Some are drawn into currents of the past,
others name fear hope as a spell to
make fair weather out of turmoil.
Some men sleep, dreamless, unimagining,
and others wake, startled by the unrecognizable place.
My friend says you and I were too much,
that living as we did had no place here.
I wish he could peer up and see you,
mild in the orange summer light,
a ghost shaped in pastel softness,
who brought me back to life
by warming the bare arms that
knew once how to hold in this world
the invisible and the weightless things.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.