This is a poem that I recently found that I must have written some time ago. I imagine I wrote it when I went to New York with my family in 2011, but I can’t actually remember writing it at all. Its context eludes me, which heightens rather than diminishes my interest in it.
Imperfect silence, disturbed
By the turbulence of New York
Earth,
Its subtle violence a murmur,
Disconsolate mumble of abandonment.
The moon is lost, it gives way
To street lights,
Abdicating its celestial power to let
Us see
Itself in its own true light,
False and beautiful,
Shimmering orange like a harvest,
Scattered and intermittent.
But the moon returns,
Stumbling behind and
Between
The silhouettes of its own creation.
Cryptic Murmurs 