Invitee

a poem by Roger  B Rueda

I am fantasising of a flat just like this one
but finer and opener to the saplings,
nighter than day and greater
than midday, and you,
visiting, knocking to climb on,
hoping for iced tea or Earl Grey
from Coffeebreak
or whatever it is you like.
For each nightfall is a long drink
in a short goblet.
A drink of black water, such a rush
and fall of lonesome no form
can hold it.
And if it isn’t night yet,
though I seem to
recall that it is, then it is not for everyone.
Did you get my invite? It is not
for every man jack.
Please come to my flat
lit by leaf light. It’s like a hardcover with sunny
leaves filled with herds and dells
and copses
and overlooked by Faunus, that seductive lover
in whom the fish is also cooked.
A hardcover that
took too long to read but minutes to unread -
that is -
to forget.
Outlandish are the sheets
thus. Nothing but the hope of company.
I made too much pie in expectation. I was
hoping to sit down with you in a tree house
in a negligée in a real way.
Did you get
my invite? Inscribed hastily,
before leaf blinked out,
before the idea effusively formed.
An inkling like a storm cloud
that does not spill
or arrive but moves soundlessly
in a direction.
Like an obscure hardcover
in a long lifecycle with a nebulous
faith in a wood house with an open door.