but the giant moon
tracked my every move
with spotlight precision.
Is mine the Seventh House,
or am I supposed to be
performing in some
cosmic stage show?
I saw it earlier
at my office window,
thought its message
was quite simply
to put it all aside
take a long break,
give my work a rest,
vacation in dreams.
My eyelids are too thin
to block the tireless strobe
determined to wake me now
at four in the morning,
insisting I meet its call,
insisting I meet its call,
to appear on cue,
take the stage,
play a roll.
I turn my head away
but there's no escaping.
My bed is slashed
by a stream of light
sharp as a laser
burning my body
'til I have no choice
but to surrender.
There's no 911 number
for this emergency,
no moonstalker patrol
to rescue me, make arrest,
no neighborhood watch
to protect me against
a nighttime intruder
such as this.
Beaten, I stumble
to my bedside window,
armed and ready with
curses and gestures,
prepared to shut it out,
when it kisses my face
and charms me
with its brilliance.
Seduced, I'm persuaded
'to celebrate the night
with moonlight cocktails
of milky inspiration
that make me giddy
with morning poems,
as my new friend
steals away at dawn.
(c)Mary Curro
printed in Skipping Stones 2007
No comments:
Post a Comment