errol miller
MOONLIGHT IN PLATINUM
Unless it is in the cards
it will not last, tonight a blue nun
will ride with me to downtown New York City
holding in her maiden hands the moon
and all the artsy astral visions of the tenants
a find porcelain sentimental sister she is kin to
Sylvia Plath, she blows out flickering candles
in the sad cafes of liberty, she is
illuminating all mankind, grieving
in the palette of the artist, tomorrow
in the morning, an original dog star
will shine for each of us, in the wicker-works
of midday an Oriental cousin will escort us
down to seashore's shade, and later
in the evening, I'll go out to Coney Island
just for fund, investing nothing, just
hanging around, pretending to be happy
in a quaint mirage of time: I don't know
the length of the tunnel at Baltimore
or the size of the floral rooms of heaven
down to Memphis I go after my father's death
passing up and down the river, recalling
the urban sensibility of big Northern cities
beyond, in the supernatural white flame
of roads not taken, I rejoice in simplicity
and victory, life in the 20th century
playing poker with the woman I love
admiring Cinderella and her boots
and six white horses form St. Louis
before my translucent bones bleach
on the floorboard of a Yellow Cab
very cosmopolitan, these exotic dreams
and erotic wormwood acts of culture
while destiny waits in East Aurora
and giant corporations send me
invitations to complicate my life.
