Night Tide

“If you can believe anything, why 

not believe this will last? I’m here 

to tell you whatever you build will

be ruined, so make it beautiful.”

                            ~Hala Alyan

Mornings are a ruin;

signs of a struggle

in cloth sand.

On my arm

a mysterious bruise

the shape of a cloud

in an anatomical sky.

This is how my body 

resolves its emotions,

one wound at a 

time.

At night, my soul,

making what it needs

from scratch, ripens. 

Or is my mind simply

making me happen?

Or maybe my heart.

Either way, 

why shouldn’t

this process be 

holy?

I live another night.

No more naming a dream.

I disown the word dream.

Like the word God,

It begs for renewal.

This is how I see a poem;

a prayer to see 

the evidence

anew.

It comes down to this:

to take responsibility

for how to live

with what I know

and don’t know,

for what came 

and what comes

as another night tide

 strews

cold coals beneath

my feet. 

I walk along the edge

of night and day

sifting for signs

of my surrogate’s

survival.

With barely a veil

between 

not seeing things

as they are, but

merely as I am,

I ask to keep a 

sorrow

born from waking

when I leave.

After all, its all

I have for proof

having known

so much 

joy.

Peter Valentyne

October 15th, 2020