Saturday, October 22, 2011
Capturing the moon, elusive
as the big tableau.
That's a lie, for there it lords,
a Klieg light, violent, brushing,
sticking as tar on thought, on pulse. On three?
As with pitch, cannot be scrubbed clean
so one, & two, slip
during third shift, & drift
until distance, & it nests no more.
But it will always crawl, even a little.
& I cast my glass, for a time,
on the smaller hallways.