by Michael King

boardwalk beneath the knowing moon,
left the party in our wake and
we don’t look back, count the
blue-lit planks as we swap
stories like trading cards, holographic
detail, holding each of our
outstretched histories, and
here we are

there is so much noise here, did you
know a group of expectations is
called a commotion, and
suddenly there is quiet, steady splashes
of water licking at the edges of
borders manmade, yearning out loud
to kiss that old, broken shore

in my hands, on this bench, i
twist the truth out in plain
sight, and you see without
blinking, singing about the
threads of fate in a moment
we both know to be singular, somehow,
the rarest, most exclusive
party of the evening

there is flourishing in the
breaking apart, joy in the absence
of artifice, all that we let go
to make room for what might
bear fruit, truths immemorial
and newborn, here in whispers