Trajectories #5

The moon turns from head
to tails. It’s all chance
which way the light comes down
and whose way through the night
is easy, whose
is hard. Sleep is a swift run
down the wash to drink
the stars’ reflections from a still
pond’s surface, where depression
waits for a chance
to leap out from the reeds, and gotcha,
it won’t let go. It’s all
walking in shackles from here on,
chains and misery,
the dark, dark, dark
so thick it takes a shower
to wash it off. But the coyotes are quick
and don’t care
about all
this human sadness; no, no,
they can sniff out a living
and never pay interest on debt.
Through the scent of jasmine, silver
glow at the tip of every branch
and a breeze tickling the grasses
a rodent seeks shelter
from the owl, and rights
are read aloud in a downtown cell
where whatever you say will be
taken down and may
be used against you when the pack
that howls at midnight
become spiritual advisors
to the dawn.

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix since 1978. He grew up in England with watching soccer as a major part of life although he has managed to move on to other interests since then, including reading and writing poetry. Read other articles by David.