At the moon.
At times, amidst surly, weeklong rain,
I wanted nothing more than to climb the mountain,
ascend above the city and bare-breasted howl into the storm,
only to have my voice, my insignificant noise, traveling up from below,
be drown out by the downpour, droplets of water that, in and of themselves,
are irrelevant, like me, but, in concert, can render even the squeakiest screw squeakless.
Now the bookshelves are lined with good books, the same-old stories, the old day’s way,
(semi-silent, sad films: three coats of paint slathered; two were required)
always the dinner bell, sounding loudly, deafeningly, for the prodigal son,
but there isn’t room at the inn; don’t check your heart, beat it!
There is no mountain, only the valley, shadow, darkness,
tongueless babel, and then the first stones fly.