11:00 PM
Calling it a day
1
This auriferous sky,
sewn with sharp sequins.
Is there a warp, I wonder,
a lurch towards meaning,
a leaning towards
sun or moon?
When they planted
our first footsteps
did those little prints
take root and grow
or did they wander,
restless,
across this planet?
A rampant foot stands firm
on the highest rampart:
instant gratification,
timeless possession,
each passing cloud.
2
A rocket streaks upwards.
Immediate
this release from the sender’s
earthbound misery
or is it merely
a message of anguish?
Who knocks
now at heaven’s gate?
The low moon glows:
lesser incandescence,
departed sun.
3
A satellite glides
its razor edge,
slicing distant pin
pricks of light.
The moon rides
her orange unicycle
across a thin black
line of hill.
Here on the azotea,
midnight slowly
covers the sparkling town
with a dark gray cape.
4
If their grief is our grief,
and all grief is one,
do we all then bleed in vain?
Nochebuenas, tulipanes,
flowers of every crimson hue
pour blood from each
thorn-pierced wound.
5
This zapotec measuring cloth,
this mixtec weaving wool,
this trique with her knife:
who will sever the artery
that binds us to the loom
at Obsidian’s Edge?
rogermoorepoet 
Whew. As usual, a tumble of surprise, terror, and delight.
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Thank you, allison. They do sometimes come out as a sort of waterfall of words, even in the arid air of Oaxaca. This one was very much a letting go of so many emotions.
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Thank you both, Tanya and Al; I too like that line. It goes well with the idea of sharing our lives, our loves, and all our grief. Thank you for your continued encouragement.
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I was immediately drawn to the same line as Al. Excellent, Roger!
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Thank you both, Tanya and Al; I too like that line. It goes well with the idea of sharing our lives, our loves, and all our grief. Thank you for your continued encouragement.
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If their grief is our grief,
and all grief is one,
do we all then bleed in vain?…
What a question
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