It was in the sleepy time of night, time of loneliness, time of dark with
Out the scent of dawn.
Clouds choked moon's bad bulb, not enough watt
Age to keep belief believing.
I was walking in an unowned field, too much acreage, too much
Time spent with
Frost Dickinson Lowell Emerson Poe Whittier Longfellow…
Locked out of my own time.
Longing for those brothers, soul-parched, searching
For some touchstone;
Writing, never reading; talking to myself; lonely satellite, representative
Of those who read themselves.
When you see the ghost moon, you will see me and vice versa if any
Thing has survived.
Every word I wrote I wrote for you and you know who you are when you look in
To the cemetery sky.
When you're walking on a Brooklyn sidewalk, too much damage, too much
Lit-up frontrooms
Making dough for someone somewhere else, India maybe, maybe
Just Manhattan and not Kansas…
(But why not India and not Kansas?)
You see the ghost moon there, too, longing, talking to
Yourselves under the cemetery sky in the
Sleepy time of night, somewhere on this bulb planted deep in
Side the universe.
Groaning with the birth-strain of a blossom sweet as death.
Ghost Moon by Judy Schilling
