Poems


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Man in the Moon

With the naked eye, just before dusk is best
for perusing the Moon. The Sea of Crises

off by itself--a beauty mark
gracing the left temple--

is easy to locate. The Sea of Cold,
though faint, stretches to meet the lakes

called Death and Dreams--they form, in a row,
a long, single eyebrow.

As the softest shadows reveal themselves,
darkness, on this face, is not

one thing but varies
before night sets in, truly black,

and the Moon starts to glow in contrast,
hiding its finer details in light--

till we notice the mournful eyes,
mostly, and the mouth ajar, dismayed:

at the lowest rung of heaven
the Moon is looking the wrong way,

towards the blindfolded man who feels, hot and moist
on bare thighs, bare belly and scrotum

the German shepherd's barked-out breath. Again

the dog is growling, 1940, 2004,
while the Moon reminds us, in vain as it rises,

how every place is one place
under the sky.

(first published in Diner)