Birds, At This Hour Poem by Charles Malcolm

The moon hangs beneath the power lines
so distant
and they're still singing.
The air tastes like a bonfire
and the remaining flower has blossomed
since my last cigarette.

Not much traffic at this point.
The moon has moved and the pedals spread
since I started this.

I knock off the cherry
and save the last half for later.
I hope that the birds and the moon and the flowers are here
when I come back to finish it.