Fat clouds smoke across flat blue-black sky,
and quiet stars are replicas
in a painted ceiling.
I know those pin-prick holes
will be lost when I turn on the light,
but for now I am caught in the thrall of silver,
the vertigo of night sky lit
with hypnotic beams of violet and indigo
in white, whispers of madness and violence –
answerable rhythms that pull at my tides,
call to my hunger for a small heart cake,
a crust of bread.
All because the moon shows one side
of a chimney whiter than expected
as I stand, cold feet on wooden boards.
AVAILABLE FROM TEMPLAR POETRY here.
image Michael S. Quinton, National Geographic