Gold on the Ceiling
Structured and white as a flashlight beam guides
against dark edges, the moon
pleads with narrowing black
surrounding deeper. Maybe it hopes
to be a mother or cage,
protecting everything, full of itself
for the moment, unaware like any introvert.
Silent, the stars patiently glow,
insisting their presence, reckless and bare.
Where else would I look on a night like this?
The body watches those around die before us,
how birds wait in nests, idle
anticipation for flight.
While the ink settles into the sky,
we continue beating the silence
in efforts to solve all the questions,
analysis of years torn apart.
The birds sideline and rest.
Their calls cracking at the ignited sky, as if it were seeds.
Then with internal cues, they disappear.
But none of this interests me, distracted
as our voices stir through air,
birds of a feather leave together.
What would we gain if we disappeared?
Like an award held high, the moon, egotistic,
exposed in an audience of stars, watching as if
we are all looking back,
Until the light.
----------------------------
Evening Conversation
BY Allan Johnston
For Robert Penn Warren
Reckless and white as a flashlight beam cast
into some dark corner, the moon
insists on the deeper blackness
surrounding it. Perhaps it wishes
to be a woman or a window,
cushioning everything, full of itself
for the moment, yet frightened, like any egotist.
But still the stars patiently insist
on their presence, pinholes to nothingness.
When else would I walk on such a night in the world?
Half answers suggest themselves.
The body consumes and wanes, collapses.
We get to watch how everyone
dies who dies before us,
how birds rest.
And yet while night solidifies,
we can continue our discussion
in our effort to open the gift of the world,
our hope to find years
in this box we tear apart.
Birds do not count in our calibration.
They crack time randomly, as if it were seeds.
With sudden unaccountability
they start up and disappear.
And yet, in some way all of this
is beside the point, for what can we do
except continue our conversation,
and what would we gain if we disappeared?
They tell us that this is so.
Do you have any songs from your childhood
you still use to sing yourself to sleep?
Being, mind, ego: the moon loves itself
in cloud shimmers, dancing as if it had pulled
a scant nightie off a laundry line
to clown with.
We can only walk while there is light.
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