Saturday, May 5

moon poem

I am not so dumb, Atema
to ask your veiled face for love-
but there is blood on highway 71:
someone has dragged to the sidelines
a deer; truck stops sprout from between the green hills
which hold the carcass so safe

and there you hang, like a coin and tears blur my vision
and I sputter and beg, yearning overtaking me
like ecstacy shuddering through my fat arms in waves,
like I am soft ground for this earthquake, cookiecrumbling,

empty on this determined lonesome, filling up on air
wailing for my youth as it swirls between faucet & drain
touching only slightly so many other people's lonely stories
and I wept, and scratched the glass, and gripped the wheel

but it was your voice in my head, i think
which said, "don't worry,
we will have a thousand lives together"

so celestine don't worry; i know you heard me
hysterical, careening
begging the moon for a note from you

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