The moon over Aranjuez

(from the moon series)

Full beam and low. The guide
on the runner's path. Through the row of trees
an arrow, the moon over Aranjuez.

At dusk, smoked in the bars
until light comes wafting out
alongside the royal gardens.

It's not so simple as a peacock.
It's not so dry as the fountain.

And each room of the palace
is designed to keep out the lamer eye.
Each thumbnail unmooned.
Each king with his nape to the sky.

The moon in the corner pocket.
The four a.m. ghost town haze.
It is a full moon of new understanding.
It is the orders and rows
and the lazy dance across the night,
chasing the delusion of a sunset.

It is the moon nestling deep in the mind
of an American who slowly pushes
wheelbarrows of ears up and down
calle La Reina each night before bed.

February Moon

(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.