I'm tethered in the moment to a mood,
its shadow cast beyond penumbral light,
a bract of purple-green on blackish blue.
Some guy made rings that measured things with hues
around the time that Armstrong swept the moon
collecting rocks into his gunnysack.
With outstretched hands he gazed toward the earth
now tiny as a marble in its form,
its night lights splaying psychedelic blooms
reminiscent of the time when Hendrix played
his strange guitar strings. Flower-children swayed
and turned in round-a-bouts of scattered gloom.
It's all about escape, each trip we make;
a search for love in war’s long interlude.