“Oh moon, don’t cry for me,”
we would grandstand and clown for
Mr. MacDonald who didn’t like Wordsworth,
Dying in snow and seven siblings, all that shit
The light brigade: sabered morons.
No deep lovely thoughts afterward,
because you are dead.
Life was the only thing worth living for.
He stood up with Blake for the chimney sweeps.
We read Catch-22.
And all about the flak,
His romance was in living and
We laughed about the lonely moons,
overly eager with simpering sympathy,
laughed about the tides of silvery seas
consumptive children and mossy graves,
chuckled over “the soul”.
Humanism is for high school and we loved him.
Twice 16 now, I am taking out the trash,
enmeshed in fleshy, itchy life.
The moon takes me aback in its
huge bright reality.
I would be no more startled to see my skull
bleached and burgeoned, grinning down.
Consider the moon,
the way of it is solitary and mournful.
The of what and how far aren’t real at all.
If the moon isn’t achingly, brightly alone,
if it doesn’t float just to stir me…
If you saw that moon, you’d see.
I want to cradle it,
to tell it that I’m OK.
And just to be lit up awhile.
I think it would be grand,
to write a poem about the moon,
and have someone think about it,
when they looked at the moon.
You know, one of those things you think of
out of nowhere.