After Midnight in a Strange City

Clouds hang with the soft, slow flesh
of sea cows, grazing near an island. 
Church steeples and apartment peaks 
lily and line the edge. 

These clouds want to swallow the moon, 
an oyster's pearl, a newborn's hairless bead.
The milky ball pulls through, 

and I push curtains, the sleep stalks of windows,
aside. Moon stirs cloud curls, 
abdominal muscles tally the sky. 

Clouds shift like smoke, circling a single lamp
in a small room. Cream swims in coffee, marbles night.

Across the street, flashlights of fire sing from homes.
I hit off, slip like another button into cloth. 
Moon dances behind the sheets. 
The flies of another season grow tired.