Sleep won’t come and so I write...
listen to Neil Young – golden
oldies from the past, the nineteen
seventies and such.
Observe how phosphorescence
from the distant M1 fills up
the space between the hills
with a rosewater glow
as I gaze, idly, from a window.
Would that I could see her; still –
a woman, someplace, surely does
feed an infant by candlelight...
a whore, plie her wares beneath
a flashing amber sign....
and a boy, reads a book with a torch
beneath the bedspread... a would-be
astronomer discovers a new planet.
Another world pulled through
the glass of a single eyepiece.
I would be he...one who dreams
of silver spaceships in the rays
of a dying sun, the one – takes
a sparrow from the jaws of a cat,
then wills it to fly...
not one who counts each
and every tick of the clock...
one who can but lyricize
a moth’s kiss on a lover’s eyes...
who is the cold, white stars,
in the blind, night sky...sawdust
bars and cheap, red wine.