Magazine | May 29, 2017, Issue

Poetry

(Mike Stone/Reuters)

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.

In This Issue

Articles

Features

Books, Arts & Manners

Sections

Letters

Letters

Girl with Bull I read Jay Nordlinger’s piece about Fearless Girl (“Girl, Misplaced,” May 1) and her placement opposite Charging Bull and agree that it’s an injustice that the new sculpture ...
The Week

The Week

‐ We were for firing Comey before the Democrats were against it. ‐ President Trump fired FBI director James Comey, who had made himself eminently fireable. Last July, Comey took it ...
Poetry

Poetry

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 ...

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