Although special, singing
has never been my forte:
I find it hard to feel for sound
and coalesce my heart and mind
with earth and fire without a crowd of
apparitions getting in the way.
But, yesterday, six of us drove out
to a raging riverbank in the frost
and sparked a little fire to dance and sing around
under blue sky. A dusky moon
lit up a warning light. Open mouthed,
carousing to a churning
water slap, we floated cares downstream
and harmonized a rich, brown god
who turns and never stops, as far as
I can tell. At the end, our fire roared with wind
into a start of silence.
bodies quiet: the moon, floating, somehow
in its blackness, chose to call; to shine.
The sky of sixty nine;
look up at a screen,
absorb black and white sparkle:
Armstrong strides the moon.
I’m on this diet you see,
it means I can look at you
for only 5 seconds a go,
(even though you’re lovely).
I blocked up one ear
and my right nostril.
I keep my tongue stock-still
in case it licks an ice cream
but, look, the moon is full tonight,
a brand new showerhead of light
and, in the moonbeam zone,
soak up all I can.
My starving lips turn up to a shining face,
flummoxed by a bright, unbidden kiss.