Is someone trying to tell me something?
Someone (or thing) is taking my measure,
picking its spots, 
as I fall flat on my face on that moving staircase 
People line up for their turn, the Asian mother 
      and her very sensible little boy
as I step onto the treadmill 
I had moments before paused (hadn’t I?),
from the side, 
    thoughts (apparently) elsewhere, 
and am sent flying, face-first and two 
     bounces through the infield.

Keep away from machines, a voice whispers, 
They’re always planning something.  

Someone is taking my measure.
Not, I hope, for a winding suit. 
The numbers are in, I’m sure,
the gang standing at the corner
    watching the traffic 
as the rain begins to fall,
the final scene sketched on the storyboard.
Take your time, boys.
No need to hurry the job. 
                        

Don’t think 
you can get away with keeping it all to yourself!

So tonight, well after dark, I catch a glimpse 
through a living room window of the sky above the neighbor's house 
when I’m reaching out to lower a blind,
the only gesture that would put me at the proper angle to see – 
Whoa! Is that the moon? Where has it been?
Where have we been? 
Lost in a weeks-long clouded dominion,
the misrule of the heavens? 

And full? Already?
I’m just sitting down to dinner,
in front of the screen, of course,
and promise myself to go out and search the skies,
demanding answers
And when I do, some time (and mouthfuls) later

The moon, having stolen along 
its duly appointed round, is blissfully higher,
but now surrounded by clouds, 
frantic, hurrying clouds 
dashing with cosmic purpose and grace, pure virtuosity:
The moon masked, obscured, turned orange, then wholly released 
to blaze with glory, 
surrounded by a white ruffled surplice, an adoring crowd
of translucent angels, worshiped by glorifying, haste-making followers
hidden, revealed, 
submerging, emerging, dragged behind curtains, 
then pulling through the crowd once more.

Why should we suffer and quail, 
fret and hide away and pull the covers over our face,
fearful of a run of sickly shuttered nights,
presuming on gloom, 
when the moon is so faithful in her course, 
so certain to reclaim her ever-changing gleam
of a changeable truth.
                        

Time is unreal 
We were never born
It is all illusion
The grass withers on the waterfront
The light signifies,
but won’t say what 
Swiftly? So swiftly
I am the lover 
     with his finger on the button
O, ring! Why don’t you ring?
I am the flower caught in the frost 
Time swims like the big fish
     that got away to swim again
Swiftly!
   Swiftly!
Suddenly too chilly this morning to water the plants
Verfallen? Then winter on the lip
     of tomorrow
Spill the beans, my hero,
I was always your traveler
Your true fellow
Your fool