To Arielle and the Moon
The night reduced to a siren, a sigh:
Beautiful boy on the treadmill
Glimpsed sweating through sweating glass—
My new moon.
Sylvia’s moon: a smiling skull
Snagged in witchy branches; fossil
Brushed free of blackest earth.
My last moon: an orange ball at rest, for an instant,
On the grey lake.
Wish list: dining set and dresser,
Boombox, thin black tie, boy-
Friend à la Madonna’s “True Blue”
La la la la la la la
Your moon (tonight): a clouded X-ray.
I stand at a corner and stare up,
Both of us astonished
By its own secret light.