It was the summer of 1976 when I saw the moon fall down.
It broke like a hen’ s egg on the sidewalk.
The garden roiled with weeds, hummed with gnats who settled clouds on my
oblivious siblings.
A great hunger insatiate to find / A dulcet ill, an evil sweetness blind.
A gush of yolk and then darker.
Somewhere a streetlamp disclosed the insides of a Chevy Impala — vinyl seats, the rear- view,
headrests and you, your hand through your hair.
An indistinguishable burning, failing bliss.
Because the earth’ s core was cooling, all animals felt the urge to wander.
Wash down this whisper of you, the terrible must.
Maybe the core wasn’ t cooling, but I felt a coolness in my mother.
That girl was shining me on.
In blue crayon, the bug-bitten siblings printed lyrics on the walls of my room.
I wrote the word LAVA on my jeans.
It must be the Night Fever, I sang with the 8-track.
But the moon had not broken on the sidewalk, the moon
was hot, bright as a teakettle whistling outside my door,
tied up in sorrow, lost in my song, if you don’ t come back...
and that serious night cooled, settling like sugar on our lawn.
I wrote the word SUGAR on my palms.
I shall say what inordinate love is.
The moon rose itself up on its elbows and shook out its long hair.