The Moon Over Kingston Avenue

You are the page-long entry in my book,

An agony and wound I can't unburn.

You mock with beauty while the world is wrong,

Like the moon over Kingston Avenue.

Grimacing subway mouths cough out old souls

In the sovereign borough of buried beliefs,

And world-weary faces flicker by dusk,

Shuttering splendor as the night grows meek.

You with your scorn are the false in this fruit

Failing like mulberries from the branches of speech.

While the credulous gripe at their teat-full of milk,

Laughter rings out on that elsewhere of streets.

Far from this neighborhood battered by sleep

You wake that transcendent madness of grief.