It rained today on my anthology
of James Merrill poems, the spine splayed face-down,
open to The Black Swan. Works of Billy
Collins? Dry inside on the barrister.

Tonight I watched the moon carve sinuous waves
on the surface of the tea in my mug.
Auburn, brunette, in the depths of pekoe,
faint light from above etched vibrating strings
there in the circle, the pool formed in space,
rimmed by the edge. Breezes in the high boughs
like the roll of surf, pesky spry zephyrs.

I sip, swallow, small helpings of starlight,
two sugars, cream. I watch a steady stream,
low flying planes, each tipped by strobing light.

Like Doppler’s, people come, they fade away,
peak loud when near,
then trough, then go, then leave,
then go, then dream, then go,
then cry, then go . . .
. . .

© Carlos Chagall, 2013