At The End Of The Day
Schuyler Mitchell

She reaches into the weary sky            
Plucks clouds like figs
And rolls them, supple, between her fingers
I watch as they alight on her tongue    
Dissolving like fairy floss
(Sticky and sweet and geranium-flavored)
Horizon bends to welcome us        
Folding itself over our shoulders while
She wears the distance like a shawl
It catches the light when she sips nectar
Stitched together between golden fibers,
Points A and B collide in frenetic ecstasy

Evening is bending into nightfall,
Night falls into our back pockets
I’m becoming acquainted with her loose change
I’m relearning what it means to savor
Feel sensation greet skin, slowly
The taste of pennies blossoming as I bite my cheek
As I inhale helium from silver balloons
To mask each waver of my voice
She dances atop the seismic shuffle
And the puddles nestle in the concrete
They catch our shapes and play them back to us:
Our own silent moving picture