and the clouds keep possession
of its face. I wonder if
the evening stars will be
missing behind the clouds.
I want to tell the clouds
to be gone or to get out of the way.
I want to wrap my hands
around them so badly
without hurting them.
As time goes by
I see a little bit of the sky
beginning its candlelit procession
as the clouds part.
This evening the stars
have come out to shine.
Being the Moon
The moon looks like a handless clock.
Beside my dresser the mechanical
clock thinks that is nonsense though
it would not mind being the moon
instead of a clock. The white pill in
the sky, the white eye, shining bright.
The mechanical clock ticks and tocks
and rejoices in the idea of being the moon.
One hand stops and then the other.
It finds the door and floats to the sky.
Next to the moon, two clocks ticking
above. It offers the moon the big hand
or the small hand. The moon thinks it
is nonsense. It feels like being blue.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal lives in Los Angeles, where he works in the mental health field. He is the author of several books, including Songs for Oblivion (Alternating Current Press), Peering into the Sun (Poets Democracy), Raw Materials (Pygmy Forest Press), and Everything is Permitted (Ten Pages Press).