It is the violence of noise,
the percussion of a storm,
sustained thunder.
Why does the sky look so surreal,
so calm,
so blue?
It is the thousand wildebeest
crossing the river of their fantasy.
It is the sour beer,
and invisible, suspended dirt in the air.
It is the frantic reproduction of lust.
A luna moth flew bewildered
above their heads.
I watched it flutter like a luminescent violin,
its wings large as a lotus.
Its quiet shattered,
pressed like a penny on the tracks
into an oblong moon.
I remember the percussion of the train.
How low, how haunting,
how musical that weeping!
The moth escaped to the rafters of the stadium.
The wildebeest screamed and mated,
ignoring crocodiles in the yellow scum
of the river.
Jimmy strummed his guitar,
his legs white as flour,
Caribbean igloos on the screen.
Are we crazy?
Jimmy sang words of the boiler factory,
the salvo of battleships,
the crashing of cars.
Only a thought.
The moth landed high in the rafters.
A foot from the edge of the sky.
Go! I shouted, go! go!
A girl laughed.
Nobody heard.
I was yelling to silence,
to the still silver of moon drench,
the night pool,
the box of letters asking for love.
Go, I pleaded while you have a chance,
leave Jimmy alone.