Gulf Coast Summer/Fall 2008
Broken moon, broken moon,
I had not noticed the tower. The people agree
the blue is all wrong, but its scaffolding
deserves their praise. You can hardly see
where the hair was let down. Our hero
arrives with a toolbox. What do you mean
his neck won’t hold up? Hand me a screw.
Hand me the wrench for the heart.
Gently, now, for we begin in earnest.
Gorgeous how things suspend: this peacock feather,
the bar to this cage, the clue that tells us
the cage has been opened. The stump from the gatepost
that once let us in. You can’t help but glimpse
the five minutes hence, the cumulus pilings,
the lean-to of gold. Be ever watchful for the rise
of the phoenix, for the slow descent of his son.