The moon will turn red tonight,
if you believe the advertised wonders occur–
eclipses, comets, solar flares.
The city different for a time.
A burning eye over the Friday night brigade,
a drunken kiss blood-lit in Leather Lane.
Lingering this side of penthouse apartments,
searing through glass walls until drapes are pulled–
the universe will gaze back at us,
held up between the stars.
Later to smear your dreams
across a darkroom wall,
as the first man to walk on the moon
feels his veins contract,
his blood begin to boil.
If the skies happen to stay clear,
maybe this will be your only chance
to at least say you were there;
the red moon staining the retina,
your tide’s time already
winding down to the next.
Published in The Seventh Quarry