I am going to “sacrifice” the poem I wrote this morning and post it here, which means that I won’t be able to offer to a journal or magazine, since it will have been “published,” even if just among us. I would appreciate any critical reactions, positive (of course) or negative. Read on.
a full moon shines down from the graying sky
dawn is not far, for what it’s worth
to the observer the moon appears reproachful, but of course
it is only a cold stone reflecting the sun
the first crow calls from somewhere in the city trees
hidden among the leaves that hide the windows
the windows that hide the hundred sorrows behind their blank glare
panes of old glass, made from sand
everything is elemental, even the sidewalks: calcium, gravel, more sand
and the bricks of baked clay, and the arches
of lamp posts, bent metal wrested from the earth by fire
all the artifice shaped from distortions of the larger world
all so very clever, for what it’s worth
the sun at last seeps over the horizon, floods the streets
with a light the observer must call “golden”
it gilds a bundle of rags near the streetcorner
cloth woven of cotton mixed with plastic string
the rags move, swell, part, at last give birth
to a human face, expression blank and tight
a face to whom the dawn is cruel, a disperser of dreams
a cosmic cop that says ”move on”
the observer might note the movement and feel pity
a brief pang of sorrow, soon forgotten
while the dire moon sinks behind a skyscraper
where work will soon be done, for what it’s worth
Crow Tree Books 