after James Wright
Down the street, the red lit letters
of the chicken joint cut through the dark
like a jukebox at last call.
White plastic bags whirl
across the parking lot to the hum
of their song. The glow of a single bulb
halos the door of the church on the corner, illuminating
spaces between an oak tree’s leafless limbs.
Sounds of a stream
of traffic testify to our drive
for perpetual motion.
I stand on my front steps
and return the night’s gaze.
The full March moon hovers
above the stoplight, big as a planet.
As in heaven, so on earth.
How easily I forget.
