(part of the moon series)
With a hand wrapped around a coca cola
and llamadas telefónicas purple cover
atop a pink table top, the crescent droops
in an exhausted breath on the last leg of a half marathon,
explores a town car less, inhales the cigarette
smoke without smoking, potbellied and hungry,
angry at time and the useless passages
meandering without purpose, without reason,
with no sight of death and the light
of the pinhole threat under the horizon, allegedly arrives as
jesus christ the moon,
a mask and a man and a motorcycle,
rides through the smokies blowing sweat
from its heels, turning dust and ice and mirrors
into the night like a mad devil tornado
slivering between the dim stars of the northern hemisphere.
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