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.