The blood moon needs attention.
She bangs the glass panel by panel
as she passes through the naked canopy
of oak and ash - she's desperate for praise,
as she passes through the naked canopy
of oak and ash - she's desperate for praise,
for veneration, for the long moments of worship
like the early days: a world lit only by fire.
It's not until she pours those globs of gold
into the amber goblets in a south window,
into the amber goblets in a south window,
that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight,
flush with her fire, ringing like sonorous treasure,
like a suspended chord, a perfect 4th
in salty satin harmony with the sky.
I devour the scene with my eyes, my ears,
my skin, my tongue, my heart - a feast of Indian ragas.
my skin, my tongue, my heart - a feast of Indian ragas.
And just as my body shivers in its own light,
the showboat glides behind a cloud.
the showboat glides behind a cloud.
"Shalom, Shalom,"
she sighs.
Comments