Forever rising
Yesterday’s full moon
went under a sharp knife.
The snow falls,
like the light leaks
from silver, soft trombones,
the weight of rising smoke,
the murmur of Monk and Davis;
like sudden sparks of lighters
in no-man’s-land,
half hidden, half proclaimed;
the laughter of a girl,
sitting at another table.
Now - or now
is it time to say I love you
or move on?
It’s snowing and the moon is maimed.
I hear the trumpet of Chet Baker
and it’s cold.
I’m dying on some half-remembered battlefield.
I want to reach your lips,
the hollow of your throat,
the magic and the moon,
and hide in snow and smoke,
forever rising.