The moon threatens tonight: sickle,
crimson—northeast gazes at the poplar
trees.
An edge magenta says
it’s often little things
that keep my mind from making poetry.
Shadow so reluctant lies
upon the thin alphabet of outer
space that separates myself and
my oblivion. Smoking at the
window, claustrophobic light has
pinned me
to the hardwood boards. My crime? Staring long enough.
In blows the permanent breeze
when I let my mind
wander to:
sexual taboos, jubilee, lovers new and old,
suicide, seasons, scent, my own inner life.
Looking back, the
northeast sky waves to me
unchanged.
Something gives the trees refuge—
maybe distance. Maybe just the moon’s
indifference. Star-and moonlight reaches still to
meet us, unwavering, even as their lives unfold.
What admirable zeal.
