Lunar November

Up here
the snare drum
of the fishtank night
is the oil can bulletstrike
of the shipyard rivet gun
on hollow trawler hull.
The wind pounds its way north
up from the bay
through the re-grade
into the deciduous Sunnyside old growth.
Every sidewalk is a gyre
of dead leaves falling through
rot stains of concrete leaf memory.
I can't look down
or I'll forget how to fly
and fall through the maple root cracks
of the sidewalk.
Swaying curtains of rain
flamenco skirt in jaundiced beams
of cascade streetlight.
The edges of the day
that ooze out the tread marks
of the commuter bus tired
under my footsteps
and the gurgling asphalt
are stained with deep space
and howling darkness.
And now I've just heard
we might replace the moon.