the moon

last night i listened

as a story, told

and retold, passed

from person to person,

arrived at last by

way of my coworker--

pink floyd shook the walls

around a boy at a party

who sat, transfixed,

his brow furrowed

and punctuated

by beads of sweat.

hands curled up like

spheres of muscle

and eyes glazed,

he was immersed

and overwhelmed

by the music and medication

pulsing through his veins.

then finally--

when the ending notes drifted

past, and the moon began

to turn, he could not bear

to see it and could

not bear to turn away and

could not bear to look back

at the world unfiltered and felt

only relief in glass breaking

around his body, like

plunging into a crisp blue pool

after baking in the sun,

as he threw himself

through the living room window--

and the concrete below,

swooning slowly towards him,

looked as gentle and soft

as clean white sheets

after a long day.