The wind blew clouds into the sea;
the sky naked, lurid and luminescent
as in the moment of creation.
When your hair tossed and turned silvery
I knew you were a lie, does one see
moon on a stormy night?
I went that night to the sea searching,
the infinity that you pointed
I dug with my fingers;
lines creased on the seabed broke as flakes –
those are the maps, your voice caressed
through the choppy water.
From the dark depths I only collected words
with lost arms. Disembodied
they floated in silence.
November Poem A Day : Write a match poem … The matches could be sticks that make fire. Or it could be matches from a game. Or the verb of “to match.” Or as in the phrase “He’s not a good match for you.” Or whatever other match you can make.