Above the casement he sits, the moon, sweltering in the boiling night. Wafting, his breath slogs through the houses, a music so sad, so awkward, that even the wolves shrink back in silence. A little girl stands naked in the street as a dog slowly lifts its rabid eyes and two cats screech and hiss in the alley, three men stumble to the broken curb and the moon shrieks overhead. The people come out on the street and begin talking. “Why’s the moon so low with screeching music?” “Why’s the moon making a noise at all?” “The world’s terror causes him pain.” “It’s a sign of global warming.” The people, now listless, return to their homes and the three men stumble away, the cats run screaming down a barren street, and the dog stares upon the naked girl who motions for it to come. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)