Those Maybes

In the middle of night
I think of those maybes --
the hidden matchsticks
unlock the door keys
rail tracks still running into shadows

Each cry is now an artifact of eternity
sensual music wafts in,
piping the low octave signals
the half-cut moon waltz from one
corner to the other in everlasting breeziness

The changing hues of the starry skies
I think if there is a paradise
it is here, under the sterile skies
light trembles, there is no fire yet
unspoken words know you are there.