From the creeping Ferris Wheel
I see stars in commotion,
wanting in on the action below.
Meanwhile the ripe golden moon
(the wallflower of the night, lurking)
scorns the hundreds of thousands
of colored bulbs blazing on the pier.
Leaning sullen against the sky,
minding its dark ocean, pet waves,
the moon waits to be noticed,
pretending not to care. It will
never be the star of the show,
not here.
I realize the stars are in motion,
circling in peaceful orbit.
Seagulls. This has happened before:
I mistake birds for stars.
I do not know why my eyes
insist that birds are stars.
Seagulls care not whether they
are stars or birds or dogs
(or wind, popsicle sticks, sunshine,
salt air, potato chips, cigarette
butts, hot dog buns, moonlight,
kites, cats, flight)
but I am always surprised by
the always-need to name a shape,
an object, correctly upon first try
(yes, I know you,
I see you, you are that,
I am this I am this
I am this because
I say so)
Comments on this entry are closed.