By: Steven Bruce

The Night, Full of Impossibilities

That the cold lips of night
would emit some insight.

That the coffee could stay hot
and poems would write themselves.

That our eyes could be awake forever.

That our burdens and regrets
would be as light as our shadows.

That our days could be full
of banquets and music.

That we would not speak before thought.

That the truth could wear
whatever fashion we desired.

That the world would not go
its own stubborn way.

That our lives could be our own.

That the cavities of modern living
would not swallow us whole.

That we could travel back in time
and right a few wrongs.

That we would let old sediment rest.

That we could have parents
to cherish and support us.

That we would grow wings
and flee from our fears.

That we could smile despite it all.

That the blossoms of our relationships
would not wilt and perish.

That each of us could understand
we are worthy of companionship.

That we would not lose all we love.

That our rage and violence
would be as voiceless as the moon.

That we could learn
to live within ourselves.

That the world would not forget our names.

###

Midnight Verse XII
FOR MAŁGORZATA BRUCE

And night comes
with a gentle storm to permeate
the conduits of my blood.

And shy rain whispers
your name.

And lightning glints
in the empty planetarium
of my eye.

And a dark cloud carriage
bolts by the sickle moon.

And while you sleep,
the skittish night bird in my heart
sings songs of you.

###

Comes the Last Time

Comes the last time
to hear the ocean’s
serene roar.

To see the mountain peak
looming through the fog.

To laugh with a friend
while rolling down a hill.

To feel warm sand slip
through your fingers.

Comes the last time
to whistle a tune towards
the blue evening sky.

To feel the rough road
underneath your feet.

To watch the shy moon
go sailing by.

To find animals
in the idle clouds.

Comes the last time
to ball fresh snow
in your hands.

To feel wild rain
pawing at your skin.

To hear the bleak wind
howl beyond the trees.

To smell the fragrance
of sweet spring blossoms.

Comes the last time
to listen to your favourite
composition.

To read the final sentence
of that book you adore.

To watch the last scene
of that film you love.

To taste the final morsel
of your favourite meal.

Comes the last time
to kiss your partner, delicate,
on the neck and mouth.

To wake up with each
other in a warm bed.

To tell yourself that love
is a game of Russian roulette
wherein a single chamber
lies empty

and, still,

you are courageous
enough to pull the trigger.

Comes the last time
to say that today could be
our last day on earth.

Sooner or later,
we’ll be right.