Listen to Reeves Keyworth read "Summer Evening, the West Side:"
Summer Evening, the West Side
Before this angled moment is lost
to a siren on Ninth Avenue
and a high impacted cloud,
I want to say how we have leaned
our elbows on the scored brick of the balcony
to see through the thronged air,
air mulled with yellow electricity,
the moon where it goes upward
on its own fleece of light.
This buoyant face seems to watch us,
love us, being so full of opposition
to the right angles whereby we live
and so persistent in its reminder
of that much older account
in which it is hung in the trees at night
to create an overlapping dapple
in the glade where the grass
is stammered with dew
and we are wet with it.
Here we imagine ourselves at ease
and restless, moony and night-struck
as the mockingbird who claims this grove
as the bounded kingdom of his prerogative,
and we lie on our backs to count the stars,
to tell each other the tale of cities
that are holograms of yellow light—
we who strain again
against the burnt brickwork
to watch the moon in its illusory steadfast rising
while over the sunk wastes to the west
the last red light slurs out.
Reeves Keyworth is the author of My Daphne Phase, a poetry chapbook published by Finishing Line Press. Recent publications include RATTLE and Slate. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.