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Boston Moon

On a warm midsummer evening
I ride the sixty or so miles back from Boston
Playing tag with a Full Red moon.

I see it blood orange dark, at first, through the trees.
It waivers, disappears, leaving a bloom of
slate and indigo tint on the spaces
between each whisper of clouds.

The heat of the day leaves me grateful
For the cool and cautious miles
That unfurl before my lights.
Behind is the call and response of fuel burn thunder,
The throaty drone of forties technology
And a sense of having traveled through space
beneath the moon as it rises returning,
Wheat, bisque, pale ivory
A futile attempt to drive back the darkness,
keep the night, then the morning, at bay.

Now the full, soft lunar face seems to write my path
in soft grain of flax and azure
the endless horizon of hyphenated concrete panels.

How much is there to dream in this soft tunnel of wind,
Oceans of air drafting hard through the leather straps of my helmet
To sing me into a trance
The road becomes a movie screen
Coiled backdrop against which
Flow reconsided moments...

I was reading someone a poem,
Buying something at the Stop and Shop,
Waiting for an answer
Hoping for a miracle
Swimming in dark eyes
Admiring her face
Composing a verse
Lighting a candle
Casting a stone into the sea
Riding through the night

In the comfort of the cool air
And the changing colors of the moon.