The moon drops its ladder of light to traverse the viaduct arc
and climbs down to earth; a humid, teeming place. We saw him
psychedelic face mask, brown skin, green-eyed, in blue rubber gloves
like an astronaut, his crisp space suit only now a hospital gown.
slow motion breath-one two three hold, out two three cough, spit, & release
& the moon descends. we are wondering if he is sick, we are wondering
if he can see the moon, feel the sun, taste coffee, & butter pecan ice cream
if he has ever watched the deep, foaming ocean water swirl around his brown limbs.
smelled the atlantic salt-water night wind, crispy & cool, swirl & whine
the night the moon climbed down its ladder of light, in this fevered air, he was here:
he was witness; we hold leaky lungs heavy & scorching in pandemic blood,
we, diseased things; if he is not sick, he is something closer to hope,
and he, pushes moon fever, holds the heat of words & breath
that we may climb the sky with our legs and wheels and eyes.