I’m looking for the blood moon in the suburbs.
I can’t see shit under these streetlights;
then my one-eyed dog shits under a streetlight.
We head for the receptacle of custom & waste,
but I spy the local news, their stadium of lights
on a war horse diesel generator, the laser sight
of their shoulder-mount telescope trained on the earth—
I decide to find another place for shit.
On the next street a man is walking
in a reflector vest inlaid with red lightbars.
This guy’s a vein, he’s looking for the blood moon.
I follow his cardiovasculations like a wounded animal,
a bird I shot once wishing it was over.
Then a woman in a scarlet robe steps into the street,
says in the voice you fear she’d have
I’m looking for the blood moon.
I point in her direction—it’s over there.
The crone spits into her hand & makes a sign;
as fortune I was a harlot & a wife,
as chance I’m a loveless fickle mistress—
there’s blood everywhere, but no heart left to break.
I saw the blood moon dull & setting.