One o'clock
11/10 2021
One o'clock.
The street below echoes
Sounds of burnt out ends,
Burnt out ways, and all that.
Above, the moon held in place.
Hungry for something I wander,
Trying, I guess, to dissolve the memory
As if salty air shakes in the spaces of the dark
The moon, too, has lost her way.
Partly I think still of a primitive solution,
Constructed by me in all haste:
I smile at myself in the mirror,
And listen as the smoke rises
Towards its lunar symphony,
Against the backdrop of Verdi.
Too late I realize that the only slave in that symphony
Was the chains I tied between the moon and myself.
Two o'clock.
I hum a sweet tune, and whisper
Out my window so sweetly.
Maybe to make the moon come to me.
Perhaps a protest against this light
Shining from the gap of my kitchen door.