I’m a supporter of ending this
breakfast early. The moon hasn’t left, yet
it’s 8 a.m. Always feels odd to me
when the moon watches the first coffee.  

It’s the overstayed welcome, I guess.
The noise of not belonging.
My own misreading of astronomy
and the idiocy of expected outcomes.  

I’m only haunted by the ogling creeper
of the novice horizon because I prefer
my moons gowned in black and sequin.
So all of my nightmares are about being awake.  

What is it that beats behind the beating
of a heart? The moon with its tumultuous pull
of wherever water? One cardinal lifts off,
worm-beaked to break a greater humidity elsewhere.

Another, barrel-chested, St. Louis strawberry
of the air, stamps around angrily.
I wonder if the sun doubts itself and postures,
waiting on the loitering moon.  

The sky is a collection of lost keys. No one has an answer.
On a Saturday morning in South City, 5th floor balcony,
enduring a rare sonata of quiet. I can’t hear the 14 bus,
but I watch as it swallows the offspring of Arsenal Ave.  

This isn’t the day
she will leave me, yet
it feels like a rerun
I’m seeing for the first time.  

Under this odd moonsun in the morning,
emotive of streetlights on cheap jewelry at midnight,
I watch candy wrappers run loose on the wind then
gang up again.