Not for Moses and his people. Not for the Red Sea
Nor the tragedy of a miraculous success.
Not for candy shoppers. Not for snow dreams
Frosting children’s clothes. Not for gold, myrrh,
Nor certainly filthy lucre. Freshness in the air
Nor lemony sweets. For homeless wanderers—
Newspapers stuffed in New York shoes. Odd-job animals
Sainted by the very cherubs least able to camp beneath
Christ’s canopied rainbow. For the tropical man stunned by it
Who hugs himself for lack of companions. Not for bells—
A colorless sensation flares like light.
Hour of moon
hold of the ocean,
the sea swell.
Hour the great impregnable orb
cuts its vein. Its emotional
crisis raking surf,
shore, shadow, look, beachcombing lovers.
Hour of moon dust.
but les liaisons dangereuses
like a razorblade’s threat,
like a reaper’s scythe
drawing from the earth
the loneliest, lightest backlash,
stitching, unstitching, leaving the shore
wounded, or infected itself
-- at the hour the moon's a suicide haunted by its own victim--
breathes, and bleeds.
There will be people home
and they will be alive
with salutations among the living,
bristling sex, energy, body and spirit,
and the cries that trail behind all that jazz.
There were people in your dreams
and while who can say if they’re bygone
neither were they living.
That will be the difference
between places of peace and welcoming
and a place of the skulls.
Places of peace. And ruin. And the only difference.