Manchester Moon

The night is seared
where city meets sky.
Industrial lights
incessantly display
proof of fiscal success,
discoloring midnight
with aberrant orange edges.

The moon hangs in solitude
out of obligation, not desire.
Exposed, like a stripper
whose heart is somewhere else,
she displays herself
for the masses to ogle.

Even the ground, scarred by
the fruits of so-called advancement,
aches underneath miles of
edifice and asphalt -
constricted;
unable to take a breath
of sweet evening air.

I feel the submissive woe of this soil.
My empathy extends
to each ancient stone,
each bird whose nest is in jeopardy,
each cloud whose path carries it
over this dirty hamlet.

Like them, there is no longer
room for me here.
I belong to the night,
to the sanctuaries still untouched
by progress.

I close my eyes and try
to wish myself away.

My Humble Reclamation

My words, like wild animals, fled,
pursued by buildings
and deadlines and commuters
and commerce,

retreated to the few sanctuaries
left in the world,
to go unnoticed and unremembered
in the monotonous scheme of “things.”

They crept by night,
active only under the cover of dreams
and black skies,
protected
from the calamities that pepper
sunny hours.

Now my words are stirring,
becoming antsy, impatient,
to reclaim what was once theirs.

They urge me, in whispers,
to remember my mother.
My mother who said:

Hold very still, don't make a sound.
Sit quietly and wait for them
to come to you.

And they will.