Moon on a Tightrope

Posting letters on a windy night

seemed dangerous then with the great trees

lashing the sky to a whine and a roar,

whipping the terrified moon

hopping on a tightrope

taut between topsail clouds.


The sudden shriek of the fire engine

set shivering the laced chiaroscuoro

wind wild moon pattern -

twig thrashed pavements split

by pools of running lamp light spilt

along the gutters with the late rain.


The sort of night when bicyclists go mad

and waltzing two-forked men in black tights

climbing street lamps

pirouette upon their tops

and steal the bulbs

going pop and plop

thrown where the running cat

wipes its tail on a varnished wall

and scoots a hedge hole through.


The falling letters in the sheltered cage

seemed absurd, ignorant of their birthday facts

and the quick wild wings

of their only journeying.