Scratchy thick wool blankets bare legs
Lying gently upon cool gray rock and red dirt,
Beneath the untouched blackened sky
Dangling iridescent flickers on thin strings,
Which could only be compared to the works of Van Gogh.
The floating stars seem unaffected by the bitter wind,
Even though my hair blows and my pale skin burns.
And I then resent the yellow spherical blaze,
Gloating in romantic perfection,
When I only plead for absolute darkness.
In a childish stroke I squint one eye closed and
Between two fingers crush the luminance.
I should have paid better attention in astronomy
Because then maybe I would remember
The countless constellations once memorized,
Or recall if the moon is waxing or waning.
I wonder how many others are still awake,
Awaiting late-night resolution or sleeping pills to drown the body.
I wonder how many others resent the moon
For glowing flawlessly when the only thing desired is sadness and pity.
With every swig of whiskey I take the night sky taunts brighter, pulsating,
Reflecting the pathetic chaos of the world below.
I pretend to lasso the throbbing orb which I once swore to be made of cheese.
I want the moon to drift closer,
Even if my name isnít Mary and even if I donít have a George.
Pulling the slight rope tighter, bringing it closer to my warmth,
I pray for the scorching sun to bleed into the cityís singing skyline,
Splendor subdued by heavy smog.
Maybe then I can let the moon go and stumble home,
To look up the constellation Orion, or perhaps Taurus.