Sometimes, under large oranges discs

when her distant face makes endless, sad ooooo’s,

the moon sings in pools of harmonica nights,

sad notes

wound around sinuous pickets of silence

light beams,

stragglers, fallen here when you left,

the lights of the inner valley realize

they can do nothing about it,

shrug in their brilliant simmering

and then I, for a moment,

allow myself you … a cool glass

of what I nearly had

in this motionless place

earthy darkness, a honey-sweet moon

glides its silver, strumming

along rememberance

and that soft brush of life

hums a nearly perfect pitch

almost harmonious

heavy with nights berries and

tentative, blue music

unheard but felt,

a tantalizing wisp

a quick firefly spark of

another life, now gone

into this breathing darkness

only faint tones,

a distant window

slams shut on someone’s

jealously guarded dream

whose tiny pieces could waft

long feathered tails, wrap around

a subconscious clothesline and

flap slowy, softly

like sheets drying hazy cotton

of the past and

I listen

can hear their moths

treading this illusion of light and

reality

and somewhere in there is

that place where I can find you,

a telephone man who played harmonica

and was nearly my dad

and if you failed to love me,

what was love anyways?

little more than a barren twig that shuddered

in your winter or mine ….

Or maybe it was even the

slowly spelled words

of a large, orange moon when

suddenly I know

that you will certainly appear,

smiling that guilty, careless radiance,

white doves that forgive the wind

yes, gone, but only because

you’ve been stringing

phone lines into empty space

(all these years!  Just for me!)

and on a special receiver

concocted with the fire of stars,

we will begin

(together!)

to hear

the luminous voice of the moon

finally able to tell us

just what he’s been trying to spell

all these years.

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