Sturgeon Moon

like a christmas tree’s tinsel
in glittering & faded dust
suspends fragments of existence
he sees a face in the moon
he sees a moon in your face
what lapse of memory between
recognition even in dream
a fatal disease called terminal love
the quarters of his head
after the eightfold city of light
the morning hymn on high
an actor of many faces
many voices & all lies
as the stars look down
driven beyond their controle
on a masque that doesn’t fit
the stage where the rest is silence
in a pool at the bottom of the hill
drawn from innumerable tributaries
where the dragon fly pays homage
to the lotus in the name of the
bourgeoisie’s title to fame with mozart
in another room from another room
with another name on the
radio again -- made in china.
Gift of Tongues