After Dinner

by PM Flynn

Torn winds push time into shifting rooms; water

spilling that packs each carpet fiber tighter.



After dinner with the moon who happened to be

in town, there is no room for the sun anymore.

Nights are a song on the shelf:



the message on my machine

where I find you now. Something

happened, more than friends said:



colored ribbons; depths of blue, red and green

shades; the thinnest colors on walls that disappear

at night as I close my eyes.



There is a river within these rooms.



I return to that shelf sometimes, when I hear

the ocean. Leaving is easier than returning.