That one billion sunsets
May lazily drift behind
The central mountain ridge,
Coldly playing the Atropos
For each day’s end,
To the other side of the sky
In hopes of a warmer, brighter day.
That we could sit on the stone
In the hollowed town square
And count the blind windshields
And blinding lights
And wait here in the chilly damp
For the sun to rise above
These old brick homes.
That we could hold hands
And walk to the edge of town
Or the end of the world
And try to determine
The still stalks of corn
On either side of the pointed road.
That we could hug
Under the desolate blanket of night
And read the starry sky,
Picking out constellations we know
And think we know
From former nights spent
On mountain tops and clearest woodlands.
That we could spend all night
Alone, trekking the forlorn pavement
And letting that unspoken thought
To dwell heavy above both our heads.
That if you vocalized
This night’s natural splendor,
This draping sheet and lofty charge,
And your eyes sparkled sapphire —
Then I suppose —
I suppose —
I would say —
I love you too —
Greg Scheiber is a graduate of Gettysburg College and theatre teacher in Connecticut. He is the founding editor of Sunset Liminal Press and his work has appeared in Nomadic Journal and Poetry Quarterly.
Luis Lázaro Tijerina was born in Salina, Kansas. Mr. Tijerina has a Master of Art degree in history, concentration being military history and diplomacy. He is a published author of military theory, short stories, essays and poetry. Mr. Tijerina resides in Vermont.
Leave A Comment