No Moon Midnight

Midnight I lie on moss and weeds in what was once a lawn and scan the sky.
For a second, I mistake fireflies for meteors. What have I done with my life?
So much diligence wasted on bottom rungs. Clerical work. Dating. Why
couldn’t I say no thanks, goof off, read books on company time?

We all mocked my grandfather for filming sunsets start to finish,
seeking the ideal, but he had it right; he got to see a lot of sunsets.

At least, I went to Rome.
I should have bought the too-expensive leather sandals,
but on a drizzly day that made the fountains quiver,
I walked on the roof of St. Peter’s behind the backs of saints.

The depth of blackness shimmers with dimension. I shut my eyes
and microscopic stars blow between my outstretched fingers.

Published in Moria