On this night the moon
should be new or full, the sun
should reflect on this
More than a billion
stars will fill the sky tonight
I see just a few
Evening clouds gather
staring down on the city
imagining rain
sky
ISLANDS
You have no sense
of being on an island
standing on the corner
waiting for the light,
caught cursing those
who block the box.
It is odd having to look up
to see the sky, gray
on this day, but here
the horizon is only chrome,
glass and stone.
It is only from
the 45th floor
that the river
brings you to ground.
THE SKY ABOVE
Only in New York will you find a giraffe looking up at taller buildings
and not thinking this the least bit strange. People always look up at
buildings and it is never strange, but people know that giraffes must
be different and their looking up is by its very nature strange. Giraffes
look down at people as well. This is not strange, and people accept this
although they are usually not pleased. People do not like being looked
down upon. Not even by giraffes.
DAWN, AUGUST
They cut neat incisions
across the slate blue sky.
The wounds they leave
slowly peel back
the white edges slowly spreading
until the sky hemorrhages
its cloud-like streaks.
The oak drops
yet another acorn
and the squirrel scampers
to gather it in
before the sky flees
under its gray-white blanket.
CORNFLOWER
This morning, as I do most mornings,
I took my paints and painted the sky blue.
Today for some reason, I opted for Cornflower,
it seemed to fit my mood and the neighbors cat,
after considering it for a few moments
seemed to agree with my choice, though she
suggested tomorrow might be better served
by either Carolina Blue or Iceberg, but
if I don’t sleep all that well tonight,
I suspect I will just go with Cool Gray.
The Cardinal says anything darker than
Dark Pastel blues is unacceptable since
it takes away from his beauty, but that vanity
aside, it takes too long to sweep aside
the clouds to do the second coat
the brighter blues all demand.
HOWL
Tonight a blood moon will rise.
This isn’t about lycanthropy
although the moon will have
the fullness that metamorphosis demands.
The sky will be clouded
the now crimson moon,
the planet that wears the palette
as its nature
will lurk out of sight
and we, lost in dreams,
will imagine what our eyes
are unable to see.
CITY OF FORGOTTEN
The lake in Central Park
and its cousin rivers
reflect the gray
of a cold sky,
an April afternoon.
None of this is seen
by the multitudes
traversing the streets
and avenues, a people who
barely remember the sky.
