the summer moon this morning
isn’t plath’s mother.
she is instead misshapen in the west,
a phosphate tablet
dissolving in a glass of blue sky.
pale, floating above
zig-zagging oak trees
their rambunctious leaves
dance to
perfectly circular pigeon coos
echoing smooth
over ōrākei basin
where trains don’t run
and a furious sun
is tempered by a humid horizon to the east.
it is tepid heat
tickling the tiled spinal cords
of multi-million dollar mansions, making them
squeamish with laughter.
and so the day opens,
both celestial bodies in opposition
equally diluted
in an opulent sky.