the moon outside 152 walnut.

oh god, the moon i said, an old woman

peddled her bicycle closeby and looked up.

there was a red light flashing on her basket.

it’s the frontier, to noone in particular,

where love goes to die. and then comes back.

crazy. massive black borderlands, where no quarter is given,

not air nor water,

where light travels home, where we go

and come back from always.

leaving home on a journey home.

we all have someone whom we wish to show everything.

even if it is just the moon outside 152 walnut.

i wish it were only the moon i long to tie close to me,

blistering cold and bright. it’s so clear tonight.

as the old woman circles back around, she is checking out

what is salvageable in the trash. aluminum glints from a cloth bag

hanging loose off her shoulder.

many things can be seen in the moon tonight.

i have a memory of the moon from inside each of my lover’s rooms

where we used to sleep. i remember rising

as the snow quietly piled in the half light of morning,

looking at her arms coiled around the pillow,

the great darkness of the tattoo on her back and all its corners i would kiss

thinking how lucky i was to rise in these wee hours to wait

the morning’s tables and get drunk off their cheap champagne.

and then come back.

i don’t know what is salvagable or how to get away from love.

planet to planet, gravity pulls. always we are travelling home.

moon in the front yard stop yelling about what we used to feel like

young, confident in love, all the secret writings

we’d leave to remind each other. yelling about the moon

when the fans at night could not keep us cool 

and the noise outside was too much

anyway. hold on there, almost full. so almost empty.

something’s in that trash.

you can’t throw away the moon.

each small thing in my new home brings the past with it.

even if i wanted,

i cannot seem to close the door.