James C. Baloian

Outside night holds its breath
and the moon’s half-face
drinks the shadow of a cloud,
blurring sidewalks into a labyrinth
of ghostly altars. Marooned between

a common life and things to come,
I rise in a vapor beneath the language
of shoes. An owl drifts with something
of the last fixed in her grasp. Silhouettes
pretend sleep on long benches of dream.

Stars flex their dark selves
into words we shall never understand.
And where the moon falls yellow
into an orange bed, I am off,

my space uncut,
through neon kingdoms
bending
to blow the light
from each star.