March 21, 2021
You see the moon rise –the sky is pearled blue
And you remember it is Pedro Pietri’s birthday
And J. S. Bach—both played their organs with
Intentional glamour
As if there was no one else who could walk a poem
Or offer up that rumbling sacred welcome—the melodies
Soar and drop, drop and Soar.
Like the moon’s sliced face, the wind has turned
And tuned its brazen soundings,
Then the Mr.Softee Truck tinkles that terrible jingle
Oh Spring chilly tenderness
That march of lions and lambs. A march of missteps
And dreaming. Lenten sacrifices small (no candy, no pastry)
Or large (no false speaking, learning to forgive)
What an aching sorrow hoovers the city—old men
And women shuffle to the corner and back—their spines cascading
As names are flung into Orion’s belt, poets’ names
Robert, Adam, another we have not heard.
For Robert Hershon