things above

throngs emerge to see the bloodmoon
their cars coagulate our street
on mount tabor, the extinct volcano hill
that rises a view to distant glory.

i came up on the belmont fifteen,
as it reached my number
cars were doing scatterbrained ad litems
and the bus clipped a parked car,

another whale beached by minnows
waves and real things.
what seems a crowd is a hemorrhage
in a literary romantic way,

as our telescopes are tampons we carry for bulletwounds
or great mileage scars are worn on our sleeves
turning breath to a frame for sky
or the thing shaped meanly many

there for the show
there on a hill
feeling blood in a moon mostly tainted
by men and the things above.