—to Pat on our 40th Anniversary
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a couple of hours before twilight
a gibbous moon rose east
over the serpentine spine of the mountain
a bright hole in a bluegrey scrim
there without reason
uncomplicated and expected
as a shard of granite on a slope of a talus
common as the little moons that rise
in the cuticles of each finger
of your familiar hands, singular,
as sure as the hidden sun it mirrors
and I wondered what the ancients thought
as it appeared and vanished
regular as breath, opulent as a third eye
crisp as January breeze slapping my cheek
as I cross the bridge from here to there. . .
I’m stupefied as they must have been
although I’ve been told that bright hole
is no more than dust and rock
tethered by a wrinkle in space
which holds it in a groove of time
like a stylus spiraling in black vinyl
sending mute tunes
hushed as the sure breath
that billowed from our mouths
as we threw row cover
over the kale
Jim Culleny
1/15/17
Blink 