Wednesday, April 20, 2016

Episodes of the Sky and, often, its Moon.



Episodes of the Sky and, often, its Moon.

Like a wave of cake cresting the skyline,
pink icing dawns on my suburb
and the endless changling roof
has me by the scruff of my joy.

#

A blinding moon is disinfecting the sky.
Perfect clouds seem to swish and swoop
but they're only imitating motion
in torn, obedient, stillness.

#

The moon stares up at me and
makes my walking improbable.
My Up is the moon's Down,
the True Down. So how can I adhere
To this ceiling? I am breaking the rules.
I am not an insect. I should lose my grip
On the pavement and fall headlong down
to drown in the inky heavens. Be eaten
perhaps, or ignored, by this white hot
element that bulges now like an eye
through gouges in a tattered blanket.

#

The sky is blue-black and fluffless,
as though it has just opened for the first time. Nothing stirs in it.

Unless you count the moon. So strong
tonight that it shudders my roving gaze.

It's still singing in my ears
when I've lowered my eyes.

#

The charm of the sky is its persistence:
past every house, every tree, round every corner
there is more of it. And tonight it all glows darkly.
It hums with some kind of promise
that I fathom too deeply to grasp,
a buried knowing that fails to speak –
fails even in thought. So I hold this pen,
aching to know
as one might strain to hear a distant sound,
and I write this.



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