The moon is unsteady, trusting its light
To the stars it cowers behind clouds
Not allowing beams or dreams
To release themselves from its foggy
Journey. The voice is gone.
From the jungle floor we are able
To see those stars with proper names.
We do not greet them nor they us.
From here they seem cold. Distance
Is such a detatched maiden, full of thought
That have nothing to do with our petty concerns.
Closer, a night bird tells the darkness
Another secret, crazing the place where we sleep
With lines of sound. Fear begins to rise from
Its shadowy rooms, tells us we should be afraid,
Of what we have no idea. Just be afraid
Comes the message. Halloween arranging
Its crested headpiece in orange and yellow,
Glaucous whites and using the wind as voice,
Begins the seasons tales. We have heard them
All before and we have never heard them.
“Wait for the moon to return.”, someone whispers.
“She will be round and huge and full." We will be able
To see everything the night conceals clearly.
Perhaps this is a good idea. Things fly quickly
Just above our heads. We smell the cinnamon of
Autumn rising to the top of the night.
Someone calls our names.We never recognize the voice.
Bright orange CALTRANS
Trash bags piled on the side
Of the freeway: Seansonal garbage.