Poetry: Night Magic


We strolled into the Belle Époque salon

Where tapered columns of black and gold,

Blended with evasive light to provide

A veneer for strained faces with worse odds,

Washing down the bitter remnants of luck

With gin and unrestorative tonic.

We sipped, grew restless, then emerged like moths

To a thunderstorm, dancing hand-in-hand

Across glass stones to a shadowy spot

Under tiled eaves. There we lit cigarettes,

Exhaled as the green sweep of the lighthouse

Flashed across our faces, while hungry rain

Devoured our smoke and the cool night magic

Moved us to find warmth in a long, deep kiss.


Photo: Biarritz by Night by Chris Eden

Poetry: Cleansing


The rain had cleansed the particulate air,

Allowing the sun to penetrate deep

Into the hidden spaces of the park

Where we played as something more than children,

Something less than real. Suddenly you stopped,

A cry in your voice—I followed your eyes

To a place where the sun had uncovered

What we had believed was a secret path

Known only to us in another life

Where we would disappear from the cold earth

And collapse into the other’s embrace,

Showering sudden heat with sweet kisses

That turned dark feelings of delicious guilt

Into tiny explosions of delight.