(California: April 1979)
We sipped tequila from a bottle,
saw a shadow push into the moon,
which took on a planet's gravitas,
losing its varicose craters, its
coin's gloss. Then its yellow
turned brown and red enough
to make a farmer look at it
as arable space. We enjoyed
the eclipse's math and chance,
tried to focus binoculars
using a rooftop TV antenna
as approximative point.
We tried to shape our minds
around such fear and magic
as hunters/gatherers
may have felt. We failed.
We joked, and after midnight,
we opened doors of our several
abodes in a college-town stucco
hive. We set clocks,
listened to household engines,
to music from vinyl undulating on a
turn-table like glassy harbor
water. Our dreams orbited desire.
Hans Ostrom 1979/2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem