there’s a moon out there somewhere…………..
in a place we cannot see—
past the traffic and the rain + optical lights,
the drunken lessons of the day and
the sex that makes us feel diecious
and sometimes foreign,
like pistachios and persimmons.
There’s always been smoke to soothe the
the ever-misguided,-misplaced, -misinterpreted.
Somewhere out there,
there’s a lot we just don’t know.
So, our eyes keep seeking and
our hearts still yearn,
in that forgiving copse we call solidarity.
But what of the purest form? I want to ask,
“Is it bird prints on beaches, writing out their wills for the world
We must listen closer, my friend,
to what we’re missing—
it whirls on like a whorl.