A View of the New Moon
Bare soles interpret the underpinnings:
soothing carpet, squishy loam, cold linoleum.
I knew nothing until I fell from the handlebars
of his bicycle, into a world of stones.
This will be our last gathering. A yellow stain leaks
through the book, taints each page distinct.
Now I sleep on a straw mattress and eat only apples.
Soon, I’ll hide beneath the bed and play dead.
You will only find socks and dust,
my body spotless in its invisibility.
I wanted to see the grass aflame, not fire
engines blinking in the median, foiling traffic.
I’ll keep the amethyst I lost on a Greyhound bus,
disembarking in NYC age 22; my first studio
in the East Village, bathtub-in-kitchen; and a bottle
of Seconal, you do know what that’s for don’t you?
My feet don’t reach the floor as it sinks. The grass
smolders while no one sings the silence of the unburnt.
Seasons change, the harvest moon blooms again
for the last time. Come now, if you wish to see me
before another new moon fails to appear in the sky.