Serenata

Serenata

What brilliance the night had to spare, 
it spared for you, stars and streetlights
making you unfairly beautiful
for someone who was accidentally pouring the rest of a Heineken
into an innocent bush.
Whatever, I don’t need any more of it, you said.
Well, I don’t need much of anything.
If I had a tin of olives
and maybe a shaker of salt,
I imagine I could live forever.
I imagine you could. I imagine that could be enough,
and maybe you have already made it enough, I imagine
you have meted out
each grain for each day, learned
how to live salt to salt, and olive to olive.
But aren’t you tired of asking always for little
and receiving even less? Aren’t you sick
of only ever singing
to this half moon and your glass bottle,
both white and empty
and wanting? I want
to sing to fullness, to light,
to heart-crossing and rug-cutting, to the sound that bottle could make
if you blow sweet across it. Don’t you want
to dance? You could wade in the grass with me, green water
and the white heads of dandelions
promising that anything could come true
with just a little breath, just a little
music. Turn up the rhythm. Turn up
the blues. Quit cutting your losses
and ask for more than you ought to,
more than a tin and a shaker.
I wanted to know what you would do
if you lived instead for desire. You turned your face to
the sky. I don’t know. Then you opened your mouth
and started to sing.