August ends like a zipper
on my suitcase, locked with an ornate
key inscribed with the initials
of the woman whose curved figure
shines like Jupiter in twilight.
Inside the suitcase, stars.
Stars stored in sippy cups
milk for the baby, for the son
of the moon
woman, some goddess
of harvest, of autumnal swing-
sets, with puddles of wet
leaves on their leather seats &
early darkness oils their chains.
The coffee pools in my mug, un-
finished like the season will never be;
winter is certain
as the tide, & it rises
to my lips, warm, but pulls
away.
I stand here at the shore-
line, heels in the water,
& industry rises, breaking
the innocent horizon. I wish
for gears as organs.
An immigrant in steamboat,
boy in transition, I
listen to the radio in the bowels
of the ship’s hold, sick
as the crescent’s pocked skin.
The captain announces the sky.
It is clear: the woman
has let go of her baby. The stars
are brighter, but silent.