I said goodnight
to the Harvest Moon
3 blocks from Harlem
on a stoop of memory,
renter regret and memory,
and 40 ounces of malt liquor,
after watching a girl's great tattoos
hang off the bar in dripping quiet revelry.
I don't think I have spoken a word
out loud all damn day,
and so with a relaxed voice I scream
up at the sky and the reasons why,
up at the windows that are really eyes,
and at especially the slow-rising Harvest Moon,
which sits just above the goddamn horizon
watching me watch it.
What the hell do we have in common?
I don't know, but I will figure it out
with visits and views, whether it is orange or blue,
or whether it is covered in clouds
just like my stupid heart.
We all forget where
our night went or goes,
but I will remember the conversation I had
with the moon and the city
and that girl and the passersby
who believed me to be crazy.