The Maynard
Spring 2016

Blue Moon Enters the Street

in this chamber I am a goshawk
listening there are luminations limitations of sleep
the window casement opens out
but not wide

lamentations drift up from the pavement
disembodied as if small animals
as if a midnight radio station
somewhere off-shore
off and on drift the voices one set
then another
a call-in show from Australia
grave opinions weather systems
a sad book made into a movie
a balloon head on the end of a string
a blue moon at the end of the street
ruminations sober sound a report of death someone I don’t know
Dopplering by fading entering the ether then nothing
as if nothing has ever lifted into this room
this open window
reluctant as if a clamshell