Friday, May 13, 2016

GROPE FOR LUNA

Last night, when I tried
to look up
at the sky 

in a contemplative kind 
of way, 
from the corner 

of its blue mouth,
the little crescent planet
furtively whispered down to me—

Pssssst,
hey kid—

no, you're
not imagining
things. The world you live in

really is ending—all 
of the time, in
fact.
It's 

only 
the one
you live on—
that just keeps going,

always rolling 
over so sleepily
and dim, ignorantly starting 

over and 
over and over 
again! I've seen it, 

though
you probably 
never will.

And then, after a silence,
through another sharp 
exhalation of invisible 

interstellar air—

From up here, it looks like 
the faces
of those 
people you meet

whose lips
say—of course 
you know this means war! 

when you can tell 
that their eyes
don't really 

mean that at all—because
the very elements
in their bones 

know—for a fact, that
given enough 
time, everyone 

everywhere
can have what they 
want. Do you follow?

This isn't really happening,
I thought—

You're not really 
talking.

I'm making
this up.

But then, made up
or not, I caught—

Psssst,
at least don't forget—

anything
could be true,

as long as it's 
not everything—

all at once.

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