Moon Song

The moon pearl shines down
and the knife air sharp bites
at my hollowing lungs,
my drum cavern lungs bringing in
and puff fogging out again this
stabbing crisp night.
This glow city life beats
through my willow limbs
creeps through my windows in
and settles deep in my heaving center.
Here, by my heartbeat,
is where this night busy lives.
And from here I make my moon call,
howling my cry to rise through the night,
breaking my skin on the
hum-twanging metal strings
fighting to keep meaning things,
trying to make passing wolves skipping-sing.
The soul of everything is here
on my city street home.
My hobo lungs carrying moon-wails and
biting back at the chilly nipping frost air,
not for your dollar there,
tossing and turning in its
corner-less taming cage at my stiff frozen feet.
My hobo lungs carrying moon wails and
biting back at the chilly nipping frost air
for precisely
and entirely
just
the sharp tooth sting
of pulling light, city-lit, night air
in.

















Massachusetts 2011; Photo Washington 2011