salt

sitting in the middle of a field at 2a.m.

sometimes

i dont want to be here

is that a confession, ...the salt moon,

the rasp of heart 

 

not that i want suicide... it is more complicated

 

than that

 

out here deep under  stars

my usual plastic chair is empty,  I let my telescope swing ...to wander across the sky

on it's own,

 

I'll not be back... 

 purposefully letting leaf-whispers go

 in this moon field

 

i travel  to edges on the moon-terminator

...crators confirm me ...limbs of the moon dance solitare

 

 i am stuck to this large planet tired

of day

 

tired of voices and rooms and thoughts and work...investing  in emptyness black as trees

to rattle their leaves...

 

speaking with words I don't need

...like the wind itself.

Reviews

[Penlady]

the wind is needed, as words are at times, to give contrast to the quiet when we are alone and the wind is still....

[h d e rushin]

great idea. It is those moments in poetic live ( a life like no others) minus all the blameworthy
reasons for condemnation, that this animal life of tender metaphor is clearer. I want to sit
in a field, that is if I can find one, and declare the wrongs of the evil moon, it's sinister inhabitants. And
when I am finally "tired of day", waive the privaledges of rank, assume an air of superiority
over every random variable, all speech and all understanding.

The Beja nomads of Northeast Africa cross the desert with their livestock just to trade large
cakes of salt for bullshit trinkets and tobacco because they want to, not because they need to.

Salt, for this poem, is an excellent title.
Well written,
dana