The Fist

I have come
to the edge
of the anonymous dream,
where time sits on a wire
like the enigma
of a returning blackbird.

I have fallen off the world
believing 
it was flat
and built my house
on two sides
of the fence.

Today
clouds drift
across the sky
and trees speak
without question

but tonight
I will go
to a place
where the grass
smells
of damp
stars

and shove
my fist
in the eye
of the moon
cursing
what I cannot touch.

— Bob Rose