Gordon Moyer

Congeries of Autumn

This hollowness you feel
after the sun’s slow death
is an orange and azure cave of moans;
whatever the bluejays said,
whatever the winds say
stirring round hills and hollows,
a human mind can only
describe the tenor.
What does a mist say over a meadow
in Pennsylvania?
What can a cloud make
of the shape you’re in? God was never man,
and man was never thing--
a root, a clay;
and a whole bark of poets
will never confess
what an apple truly is.

Hobgoblin

Because of some now dead
son of a bitch, who was
in the habit of always flying a flag,
his faithful widow now sees
to it that she, too, always
flies a flag. Fuck her
nextdoor neighbors, though, who
have to listen to Old
Glory flapping and snapping,
night and day
in the least breeze.

Gordon Moyer is a painter, poet, essayist, and historian of science living in Tucson, Arizona, USA. He has published poetry in Blue Unicorn, The Baltimore Review, Potomac Review, Babel, Xanadu, and many other literary journals. Some of Moyer's scientific and mathematical articles have appeared in Sky and Telescope, Scientific American, and Quantum. Currently, Moyer is teaching himself tensor analysis and composing a book of aphorisms. Contact him at didusineptus@aol.com.