JUGGLER

The blue-black plate of sky

Teeters on a point of zenith

Like a juggler’s disc

Twirling on a stick.

Intrepid owls

Interrogate the

Intruding moon

Until splash jangling

Dawn splits

Night blue into

A billion oranges

Molded into a smolder.

Up comes the sane sun

Wheeling the lunatic

Moon on ahead and

Tumbles it off the brink

Of spinning sky,

To be caught by the

Juggler and thrown up

There perhaps again.