John Martin
Metamorphoses
In a mild, autumn night,
I catch, above me,
the face of the moon,
changed to a golden pumpkin,
while all around me
a cicada combo
smites the ear
with metallic sounds,
like a brute-force steel band
from Jamaica or Trinidad
conjuring from the heads
of oil drums
an insistent boom.
And casting a further glance aloft,
I observe the erstwhile pumpkin form,
translated to that of a bright, brass gong
with a human face.
And I know whatever mode she assumes,
the moon is beautiful.
Page(s) 14
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