Ulysses’ Harvest Moon

between seeing you at the railway  station, lost in transcendental meditation, and gazing at the stars afar, i wonder why you are my lone memoir instead of working on my hardback spine, adrift, caught in thoughts unkind far away on a mountainside, crying beneath the Ppleiades and orion’s guide, feeling like i should be someone else—perhaps a bird, a sparrow, or an eagle’s flight, or a crow, a seagull soaring high, escaping the sky and the world’s harsh sigh i could have been a tailor, cowboy, sailor, or any other role, but not this frail persona i do not grasp the pressured thunder, with storms and guns tearing asunder i am in my room, feeling like a heathen, at this altar, striving to hold something impossible to grasp, like fitting an ocean in a spoon