13 December 2004

On the Night of the Twelfth

Meteors fall in green sky-rocket blazes
against the star speckled night-
the moon a dark orb peeking
east like a child pretending
to go to bed

Small ripples in the sea
clash against the metal of the hull
making click-clocked sounds reverberate
in harmony with the slow creaking
of the lines pulling tight
around the bit

A crisp breeze blows just enough
to mandate sleeves and keep
fog from settling in on still
chill waters, a hair dampening
deep fear-seated fright of a night
that leaves men blind
who scare easy

Distant clouds dot the horizon
in greyish purple puffs
radiated orange on the underbelly
by the scowl of urban street
lights growling heavenward
to pollute the evening with
a grimace of modernity

A thousand artificial constellations
dot the horizon, each a minotaur
of industry, a god of oil,
pumping proud and illustrious
in underground tubes the blood
of mechanized life

Flash rain falling orbital,
streaking hot and dripping fire
in moving pleasure fantasy,
a few seconds shining bright
then quietly fading away

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