As virgin snow in a clear winter night
her skin glows against the shadows of our room
waving sand dunes the tidal wind deposits on our bed
carving hills and valleys on the moonlit landscape
echoing fiery depths and icy peaks

My wife rests as the night sticks her breezy hand
through the half open window
to caress her body.

I stare fascinated
perfectly lonely by her side
She has no eyes for me.
She sleeps.
She is gone

I receive her with overwhelming gratitude
when she returns to wrap her legs around mine
I love her most when she makes me hate myself.

the sentinel in the dark
talks to me of things he felt but never saw
of voices the wind brought by and scattered
of phosphorescent dials in the right hands of passers-by
of cigarettes alighting small sections of hidden faces
of car lights plowing the night along the way
but mostly he speaks of the darkness itself
and the things he sees in the darkness of my heart
the sentinel speaks scarce and softly
but his eyes know no silence
his voice flows from lips that do not move
curled up in a frozen smile
without irony, judgment or humour
his eyes carry all of that – and the cold of the nigh as well
the sentinel in the dark reports about my love
he speaks of how she is doomed to be the only one
that cannot ever know what really feels to love her
because of this, he explains without malice or empathy,
she’ll never know the nature of my hurt
the sentinel in the dark looks at the sky above us
he read the stars as I would read my watch
I follow his gaze and when I look again he is gone
the sentinel has once again deserted me
and took the night away with him – day breaks

July 28th of 2012
Victoria, BC