"Like a barnacle on the underside of a boat."
That was how he described their home to her. It hung from the side of the cliff facing the western end of the river, cantilevered out on reinforced wooden stilts. The young girl had never left the confines of the village; after remarking on the distant hamlets and farms that dotted the fields below, she wondered what her own home looked like to outsiders and travelers in the world below.
"You mean a sea-carriage?" Her voice was light and sweet like honeysuckle, and carried the lilt of a soprano. He laughed then, a deep, appreciative chuckle. She loved it when he laughed. He always threw his head
like hummingbirds that don't know where to go,
that can't quite find the nectar
and even if they do, it'll be out of
reach
like drops of rain that find their target drenched,
holding careful palms aloft
to catch the tears, I mean the
water
like half-smoked cigarettes tossed from the car,
from the driver's seat window
down, down, down to the ground, still
burning
You said it was one of those nights
when the laboured breathing of the slumbering world plagued the earth with lethargy,
and the liveliest of people would crawl into their beds,
seeking solace in the dreams that release them from reality's hold.
As they sank into the deepest of subconscious visionaries, you sighed
and opened the blinds.
I never knew what on earth you meant.
Surely someone waited for you in the warm folds of a comforter,
struggling to hold onto consciousness,
so that you could join them and fall asleep in their company?
As I cocked my head to one side in confusion, you sighed
and turned away in sorrow.
Glancing at