[The morning climbs a stair onto its roof] by Brian Sheffield

1.

The morning climbs a stair onto its roof,
A distance waking up its stiffened limbs
And stretching out between the earth and sky.
I can see you start your appearance here.

Your shadow grants a visit, but my eye
Can only catch a moment of your hair.
As the day ascends and begins to wane,
I think I forget your taste, your blossom.

Oh, but my lips hold you, my tongue can hear
A lingered whisper as though you were near

Enough to tell me the secrets of your door.
I am a blasphemy, a crooked spine,
You are a wind’s chorus across a moor.
Time holds me there with you in a warm line.

2.

You walk me through the white sutures of time
Where nature petals herself open, slow –
Memory grasps me firmly by the arm
And offers me a comforting squeeze.

I am still hungry for the curvature
Of your face, which rises behind me on
Each morning, and hands the light over to
Santa Lucia, who stands above Pacific Grove.

Even as the water crawls away, only
To slink back in quick leaps, I still meander

On the shifting edges of this rounded bay.
Your fingers wear the wet diamonds of your skin,
Your arms are a soft forest of calm warmth.
The rising flames of dawn lay in your hair.

The sky becomes a blushing lake. The clouds
Recount your stories. Suddenly, they weep.

Brian Sheffield is a Pushcart Prize nominated performance poet and stage actor based out of the Central Coast of California. He is a co-founder of Mad Gleam Press and an editor with Moon Riot Press. In 2018, he participated in the National Poetry Slam in Chicago representing Staten Island. This fall will be his directorial debut of The Elephant Man, produced by Enchantrix. He has performed and been published internationally among predominantly independent circles.

© 2025 Brian Sheffield. All rights reserved.