The moon suspends itself above our cities,
its seas a romance whose mystery we haven't
plumbed entirely though we've sent men
to leave marks on its deserts, footprints
in its hills of fine lunar dust. We are always
trying to bridge the distance between earth and
heaven, to climb out of the nave where we bow
our heads like congregants in supplication.
When we look up, it is toward the apex
of the vault and beyond. Cai Guo-Qiang
built a sixteen hunded forty foot-long Sky
Ladder, wire brushed with fireworks and
gunpowder, held aloft by a helium balloon.
One June dawn at Huiyu Island Harbor, he lit
and watched it blaze, rung by gold rung against
the still indigo sky. Shrimp boats, trawlers,
and skiffs paused where they were. Villagers
emptying their chamberpots caught their breath.
It took only a little over two minutes, but
in that space, the impossible happened.
The universe glowed, opening
the door to every desire.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
