It pushes like a bird you dont know whether it’s dead or alive. But you know it occupies space. Like a napkin used to soak up a wine spill, fallen to the floor, lying like a dead or dying or simply stunned bird. (That has just flown into a window.) Perhaps a cardinal or scarlet tanager with snow on it. Or a bleeding egret, or a tropic bird with the setting sun glazing it like dried blood. Or even a drunken owl. It pushes into my consciousness, which is all that remains of the ruins of love and beauty.
You might say the commerce that capitalists make of the moon has nothing to do with my art. But you would be mistaken. The moon is worth every man woman and child. I capitalize on all their dreams, knowing most of those dreams are dreamed under the moon. All dreams, of day or night, have either the moon’s smile or its shadow upon them. And all dreamers eclipse the sun even if it awakens them. Just as all dreamers—all visionaries artists crazies outsiders—yearn to bask in its illumination.
It pushes like a mother giving birth into a new world of light every moment. Whether it’s a bird, an airplane, or Superman, stricken and immobile or flying like a ghost of its former self, depends on the angle of light from sun and moon. A lunar eclipse paints the day lily’s cheeks in shades paler than those a solar eclipse sheds on chrysanthemums. But the flowers only foreshadow the bird’s reflection in a window that will stun if not transfigure it. If shadowless death throws it to the ground of nonbeing where reflections are mute—not to say moot—it will still be inside the spherical music replete with lemons and tangerines of the poet’s harvest.