Jim Simmerman



I meant consolation, but it’s clouds tonight—
the moon a kind of washed-out badge

of butter; and what bastard child of what
randy deity am I—what bitter seed

petewied to the earth—to look to the sky
for a pinwheel of light, secret decoder ring,

some bright reckoning flame?  What is the kindred
name by which, were someone to call me,

I would leave unpacked the bag of the body,
and lightly go?  Show me, please, a simple sign

emblazoned on the night’s marquee.  Fire me
in your klieg lamp unto jewel.  Dear gods,

ancestors, superstars, loom and align
that I might bear the shine of you.