July 7, On A Highway In North Carolina Between Thunderstorms Around Sunset
The moon sticks from the sky like a cat’s
claw snagged in a dark gray carpet.
Except the room is moving, the carpet is
shifting until the entire crescent, unmoving,
is visible. And like something caught
in a dream it hangs there and does not fall.
Those things that are so much bigger
than we think they are. That are not caught at all.
A few nights ago
Almost-full moon over skidding vapor trail.
A cat on the carpeted stairs.
A street-sign day with no direction.
Perhaps I have shown too much.
Or left what matters out in the cold.
From a cold family in a cold state:
how did you tilt the seaons
so that notes slipped out of me
at your door? Words warmed me.
The world’s warnings like so much snow
covered all paths. I had to be exposed
to no direction to build a stillness
of ice, and sun, and time for your affection.
At my feet a silent tide
The midsummer light’s crashed
through the trees, fills the grass
recedes and foams to nothing
In the shadow of mountains the ocean
comes to me as you once did