The first tumor of light blooms
above the balcony where I stand
watching fireworks in the night.
Then, muffled drums, a flicker
of mica flakes, missiles snagging
the clouds, a necklace of star shells
strung on a throat of sky.
I'm alone, my window the only
one lit in the tall column. Below,
the crowd gathers in the park
to watch the ground show--Buffalo
Bill, lit upon a Brahman bull,
bucks and thrusts. A stetson glitters
to ashes in his hand.
I who learned to sleep in
an empty bed, take a single seat
in the restaurant, am not lonely
on this balcony, eavesdropping
on the moan of Oh's below.
This could be anywhere--the sky
of patriots, a cloud of cannon fire,
Canaveral out to where the comets
spin, the sky of Nam or Desert
Storm, but it's only.
the sure sky of the park where
stars connect me to families
and couples below, where a moth
sings his one-note love song
to the yellow street light and clouds,
like humped bison, move the moon.
