Here goes nothing: I’d like to see

nothing going anywhere, like a

bit of emptiness in motion.

That’s what you said to me in the feathery midnight stillness

ruffled by the friendly bearing of

a motorbike on the road outside.  

I’d like to get away I said,

sit behind you like a clamp,

wind warm and softly buffeting our faces, the

reliable  palm trees waving goodbye serially,

traffic lights winking theatrically

and moonlight, o the moonlight

doing that moonlight thing on

every thing it touches, quite unaware of

its role or effect; (aesthetically speaking)

just being itself

because hell, it says, I’m the Moonlight

and I can shine on whatever I fucking want.

You have such finesse you said, but

yes, lets ride through the night:

Granada would be good,

buzz and zip along the viaducts  and

see what the palace looks like against that

expensively dressed sky. Our eyes caressed

by a fabulous screen that stars were made for:

spilled out in arabesques  

and icy swirls of sparkling sprinkled

twinkling crystals  

backdropping those walls, those silhouettes

and we would know that if

the night was a bell it would ring with

a pure silver peal,  a poet,

it would write a dark sonnet on itself,

a dancer, it would move promiscuously

to Debussy all flowing and shady with sweet pauses and,

tired out at last, it would yawn a coppery yawn

and come to a golden end.

Ok I said, but first we’ll have to get

a motorbike.