Hermitage on the Moon
Contrails in the sky tonight
Spell out something bleak,
Rockets racing towards an explosion,
Trick props built to break
On sudden impact, spontaneous combustion
As if it just couldn’t wait,
All the fruit we couldn’t taste
In our cupped and frozen hands
With the seeds in our wobbling teeth,
All the nectar spoiling underneath.
In the wild silver monsoons
On the insomniac moon,
The craters cradle newborn seas
Of molten gold,
Quiet misplaced residents buried
Under every astral fold,
And I have to wonder if there’s room
For an arbor and a hedgerow,
A hermitage and me.
Digging a ditch in the damned lands
Tonight, a sedate grave for classic cars
On their hurried way home from the bars.
We never close our revolving doors,
Still hiding a live round
And a deepening hole in the frozen ground,
A realization, a fear, a sudden impulse.
We’re lost, no one’s looking,
There’s no one around.
It’s up to us to be found.