Under The Heavy Moon

The telephone rang
  the other evening
and it was my father there,
asking
if everything was
all right, and I said
  yes,
the street outside is wet,
the sky is blue.
Not one word about
  the empty spoons
sitting naked on the table,
silver cups cradling damp
cotton puffs, pressed down
into disks, a strange
   pink.
Not one word about
the sore arm,
the stained song,
or the exploded mind.

Just me,
sitting on the porch,
in that orange street of light,
  under the heavy moon,
 inhaling the unfinished scream
  in the iron night,
watching these late black ants just run
in circles over my arm, up and down
  my arm.
  As if
all they had to do was run
and keep running,
and I could never catch them.

Christopher Celestina