moon

The Golden Apples of the Sun

Tuesday evening waiting in a bus stop gutter
shaking off ten hours of travel and work -
from here I can see the bank building,
thousands of black blocks stacked
back to back, blank, reflecting nothing.

I stood on the bus's center circle
hanging on straps, turning with the corners
while a grey-haired man recited Yeats
somewhere in the back seats -
everyone window-gazed like it was normal.
He proclaimed: "The silver apples of the moon,
the golden apples of the sun," and smiled like a Siddha.
He didn't care. He moved on to Shakespeare.

The Liffey was low and lucid,
dark brown-green mirrored bridges,
totally calm, absorbing sound and light,
wasteland water full of traffic cones and mud,
and the rain held off until I got to shelter,
and I felt like myself again -
soft apple flesh rotting around a seedling,
I don't know what I'm becoming.

Inferno

3:45am connection limbo
the drunk and I, shadow
and crescent on knifelike benches

green, dead train on old tracks
imaginary, homeless and mistaken
moon splitting through the windows

the cold drowning whiteness
like dreaming on a gurney
drinking a night sky cocktail

two lunar ice cubes
and a numb tongue
to wake in an empty ward

sharing an ancient memory
when were moon icicles, waiting
silent in our frozen inferno

Drivers

200 miles an hour -
streaky streetlights,
burnt California moon,
death-dry desert night,

the mind of a racecar,
headlights like warped stars,
wind crying overhead -
drivers, we are

Insect Orange

When the lowest clouds turned insect orange
I looked through you and saw stars, atoms, petals
realized I was flaking away like white iron
because you were breathing on me

you foamed in patterns of arms and legs
circled and eddied to iris and pupil
became a river to inhale me
became a screen to show me visions

the moon shivered like a penny
through cloud-branches, dead silence
summer cold, sun-music
singing like a child with my fingers in you

everything peeled off like fruit-skins
even time itself, we see each other
“luminous undying and translucent”
we are a fire within a fire

we are doors opening to one room
what we love is the part that is the same
recognizes itself and kisses and cries and comes
reaching out to itself like a baby

I never knew who you were, tiptoed
around you like an idiot not to wake you
let there be no morning, no endings
one of us dreams the other, let it not be me