Night Vision-Sonnet L'abbe

His wife dreams of silent flight

On a drive on narrow roads
outside the city
she points to the red horizon,
where the sun, a hydrogent zepplin,
akin aflame, lingers
inflated and floating along the highway,
as black silhouettes of balloons
rise with the moon
into the flushed sky.

Look, she says, twilight wears
a necklace of weightless onyx tears,
the moon a pendant, opal planet.

He replies that to him
they are round bellied bottles,
necks down, pured out
and hollow.
Baskets cling to their pouted lips,
like drops of liquor,
drips of euphoria tinged
with fear, last sips
of liquid attitude, from where
one looks upon the vastness
and see's the flat horizons curve.

Must you see pots in everything?
her sigh, the hush of fire.

But he has lied
what he really sees tonight
are question marks
in their distant outline, doubled
and considering their own reflections,
a darkness inside them empty
as the negative goblet
of space between two facing profiles
They are wondering
how we travel so far
on warm wordless breaths,
and aking themselves
who they are.