Ladyface

Handmade stars hang and glide over the airfield
while the lady moon sails over the high toppers,
skyscrapers too enlightened to acknowledge an older way.
She makes round faces in their windows as she passes.
in the court of a housing development, a stone Lady stands
shouldering her bowl in the lamplight, she can neither wax
nor wane, but always shows all her ways for the houses that sleep
safe in her concrete yes, their yes, always yes and Sunday.
Farther out, at the field’s edge, one home opens a yellow eye
under a real star. And farther still, flecks and flints
of the moon-born, the forest seers, fall and rise to another rhyme
that we recite in the no time before we sleep.