[wpaudio url=”/audio/september12/Armstrong.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
I saw the Moon today at early afternoon.

It was a cloud-like curve, hidden from all

but seekers. The sky was summertime blue,

and a police helicopter drowned out the sound

of gentle jazz in my car, but raised my eyes

to the sky.


At night the Moon was a breast, illuminated like

a cream neon in Soho. But with my naked eyes

I could see a cancer on it, a shadow from an impact

too long ago to comprehend? I stared at the Moon so long

it actually subtly moved in my window, then it was gone.

I asked myself, with all that light is it hot?

Then I thought, nonsense, Armstrong probably

wore thermals.