Max Michelson

From “May in the City”

I AM slowly wheeling my child

In the swarming park.

The sky sheds skeins of darkness

As delicate as light.

The stars curl in their coverlets

And allow the thin light

To drift from between their fingers.

The moon, like an earnest priest,

Seems bent on holy business.

But the trees are capricious: they display or conceal

Part of a torso or a knee, or reveal

A poem of branches. The little water is thick with mystery

As a lake in a forest. The grass

Tickles my soles, and I can feel

The earth under, rich

Yet almost incoherent.