A dark angel strove to conciliate
the morning dew’s short life
evaporating into the light
under a bright July sun.

Somewhere a dog barked.
Somewhere a cat snarled.
Somewhere a child cried.
Somewhere a woman screamed.

An angry ancient truck
ground wearily up the old south road 
to a place where the moon never shines,
where dark stars go to die.

The sky turned orange yesterday
when the blue lady left her cave
flying on gossamer wings
into the Mojave Desert.

Somewhere a phone chirped.
Somewhere a crowd cheered.
Somewhere a soldier died.
Somewhere people still laughed.

Cole lived with his wildcat lover
in a hidden canyon of red rocks 
and dark starry nights
where his music and song
was performed for Ravens
and buzzards and lizards
and all the sisters and brothers.

The Wildcat disappeared 
when the Barely Corn Moon
rose above eastern parapets
not to be seen again
until summer sage
bloomed in a purple
haze of scent.

A blue sky glowed golden
where Ravens soared free
from purple darkness
when vampires flew,
when banshees howled
where there was the sorrow.

High mountain peaks
where we longed to be
above narrow valleys
that sheltered our minds
during the dark December
before holiday luminarias
when only writing our poetry
and reading Virginia Wolf
gave us hope for tomorrow’s 
eager new light to erase
the quiet solitude of 
dark cafes with frosted windows
which kept us alive when snow fell 
softly on extended tongues
tasting of fresh coolness
like from a first sweet kiss.