Forgetting/Letting go
Before letting go,
forego letting be–
at least for me,
that’s how it had
to be.
I needed to knead
what had gone
before–
I could not let it alone,
alone.
Forlorn, I foraged for a lore, some tale
that I could wag,
some tale that would make me
a teller (taller),
a wagger (wage-earner)
a mover and shaker
and not
the moved-out, shaken–
I told this tale
as my own bedtime story,
until I just didn’t
anymore,
until–it seems to me now–
I arched my neck back
and saw through the window at my bed’s head,
all those shines
the glass reflected, genuflecting
to the laws
of perspective,
bright rounds that outglowed the moon, though but
the disks of desk lamp no bigger
than my fist–
mere street lights,
red, green, white–
no bigger than
my head but seeming more monumental
than even dwarf stars–
and as my eyes noosed
those outsized glares, some grip loosened
in my brain–
Of course, it helped
that you also lay beside me
your skin too glowing,
but not glass.
*******************************
Another drafty poem. (People make fun of my term, but when something is fresh off the brain press with relatively little re-writing, the word “draft” feels right to me.) This one owes a debt to the wonderful writer, Kerry O’Connor, who posts at Skywriting and Skylover, for a poem she has called “Gotta Go” in which she talks about the difficulties of forgetting letting go. ”
The pictures are from NYC, taken the other night. In both cases, the moon is the smaller orb in the top left.
ManicDDaily 
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