In the depth of night

we lie on a warm rooftop

our faces bathed in time and memory;

your hands slip over mine

like the stuff of clouds

we see slowly peeling away.


In the darkness of the tide,

warmth slipping in unseen

but crashing all the same

against an unnamed pier

deep, dark, immeasurable

like the hearts we gave away

slowly slipping over to fate.


Warm salty air

light flickers again the skin of night

are they stars? are they ships

traversing our map of dreams?

oh sweet delusion

oh dear oblivion

this rooftop is too near heaven


and your hand on mine

or mine on yours

too close to perfection;

the stuff of earth

slowly peeling away


susan smith nash

17 february 2002