Chasing Luna

Like a bizarre bowling accident she
limps down the alley
Unaware of the unseen eyes that see
what she does not want them to see
that she is weak/helpless/vulnerable.
Resting for a moment near the corner
of the street, she wishes that someone
anyone would help her... she is hurt.
She knows the sting of pain and the vague
anguish of guilt: of that much she is capable.

She is somewhere low on the horizon
on the edge of winter
Hail rains down like the fists of an ange(l)red
lover pounding on the red-tilted slate roof.
She waits for the clouds to go
She waits for the soft snow to leave
and the leaves to blow away down the street.
She is the moon.

He sees her but she does not know that he is there
He knows that she was/is trying to hide at the
end of the alley below the stairs.
He wants her and wants her to went him too.
He wishes that he could make her give him her heart
and he wonders why sometimes when he cut her,
her skin looks sort of blue.

He remembers the wind blowing through his hair
as his Honda 660 screams down the highway.
He knows how the breeze feels on his face
When a storm is just an hour or so away.
He is the sun.

He is somewhere behind the mountains
The Rockies rise tall and seem
unencumbered by the weight of snow;
They rise unconcerned and stand among the gods
crested with the hard ice and snow of summer
that never seem to want to go away.

Wind screams down from heaven
down the mountains
across the plains.
But by the time it reaches the city
it seems more like a lonely sigh.

October 1998