MOONLIGHT IN NASHUA
The moonlight rouses me at half past three,
piercing through thick curtains I had drawn,
but for this gap. My heavy-lidded eyes
return the glare. What’s this bald rock to me
but glassy basalt leering from the skies
indecently before the wholesome dawn
can chase it off? I know the facts: We need
the moon to stop earth wobbling on its axis,
thus regulating temperature; besides,
it tells the sea’s invertebrates to breed.
But I’m evolved; immune to lunar tides,
and have no love for any fool who waxes
nostalgic when he drinks light second-hand,
and uses this excuse for acting strange.
I rambled through the streets at night in June.
Now it’s too cold to climb a fence and stand
beneath a balcony, begging for a spoon
of wild honey, pleading for small change.
My life has waned beyond that phase; it’s cast
into the iron calendar I keep
to pay my bills — the lasting consequences
of midnight walks in my moonstricken past.
It’s someone else’s turn to lose his senses.
The clock stays set for five. It’s time to sleep.
—Stephen Scaer
This poem appears in the May 29 print issue of NR.