Bruce A. Jacobs- Ⅱ
Panhandling
Come to me, moon:
your fat sky
shot full of stars
and you, circling white ember,
swinging ripe light at us
as if it’s free.
Moon, come to me.
I’m a day and a dollar short
of your dangled display,
locked out of tonight by glass.
I’m a fossil in ice,
a windowed loser.
Call it weakness,
a frozen worm.
Call it bad luck,
a kiss trapped in frost –
But come to me, moon,
breach me, make an
open crescent
of my white skull.
Break into me
with hammered light,
blind me, outwit me,
pull my flesh past
this room of crystal and ether,
this packed atmosphere
I cannot inhale –
Come to me. This is
war and I want to
lose to the universe,
lose to the nuclear bonfire
of space, this place
shot full of stars
where I hover
exposed,
rubbing my hands
in moonlight
like wet kindling
in flame.
Come to me, moon:
your fat sky
shot full of stars
and you, circling white ember,
swinging ripe light at us
as if it’s free.
Moon, come to me.
I’m a day and a dollar short
of your dangled display,
locked out of tonight by glass.
I’m a fossil in ice,
a windowed loser.
Call it weakness,
a frozen worm.
Call it bad luck,
a kiss trapped in frost –
But come to me, moon,
breach me, make an
open crescent
of my white skull.
Break into me
with hammered light,
blind me, outwit me,
pull my flesh past
this room of crystal and ether,
this packed atmosphere
I cannot inhale –
Come to me. This is
war and I want to
lose to the universe,
lose to the nuclear bonfire
of space, this place
shot full of stars
where I hover
exposed,
rubbing my hands
in moonlight
like wet kindling
in flame.