The Ukelele Player
Under the hidden moon sings the old man
softly. The forgotten songs ribbon across
a purpling sky.
Those who pass do not glance his way,
unmoved are they by his faltering lilt.
Yet the shadow of his voice rises to the moon
and suspends us all utterly.
Sturgeon Moon
There is a narrowing in my chest tonight as I wrap myself around myself, folding inward.
But then I sense the coruscating gaze of the sturgeon moon—its resonant splendour cracking me open.
I cannot contain myself. I am not self-contained. The close moon seeps through my crevices, infusing my fissures completely with its liquid joyous luminosity.
Moonplace
I should be sleeping, but the bed, once cozy, now confines.
The axis of my lying body seems in error—the soles of my feet float uneasily, seeking surface.
A fox shrieks through the silence and pierces me upright.
I know that I need to find the moon.
I slide from room to room, looking through every window.
It is not there.
Then I spy a bright square on the carpet. I look up through the skylight.
There it rests. Chipped at the edge, hazy and ragged, but its whiteness cools me.
A soothing ballast.
I return to bed and close my eyes, watching the dark silhouette shift behind my lids
until I am gone.
«VERWANDTES LESEN» POEMS BY GEORGE CASSIDY PAYNE: Falliscent, Seneca Nation and more»
bild: USFWS Mountain-Prairie
