by Mark Fischweicher
In Tucson, people sit tossed
among the fractured cliffs of
two low hills by
Gate’s pass, gauging sunsets
or as it happened once,
when I’d already stood to leave,
and the light slipped out
from under the fast becoming grim horizon.
Light from darkness;
……..catching the Eastern! fringes of
a skyful
of leadened clouds
and scratching them
with bloody fingers
Backwards
cross their splintered edges
as if Dawn were coming now,
Helios waving
from east to west
good-bye.
Imagining the ‘day’ that might have followed
we all applauded.
Imagining the cold dark day,
hundreds of absolute hands.
And the line of headlights leaving, the only ceremony, and
darkness, the only encore.
And yet, you see,
…for me, it is the moon
in bed with the mid-day sky
that I love most.
………………………..There.
As if it were there all the time
day in, day out
shoved out on stage while the sun
still has all the lines.
In swells and streaks its light
defines itself.
Demanding I go see
Mark Fischweicher has been scratching out poems since junior high school and still hopes it may become a regular thing.