Michael Jackson,
dead and gone,
king of pop,
the moon’s own son:
the earth was yours,
so was the night;
neon and sparkles,
hearing, sight,
a velvet touch,
fedora white.
Michael tell me,
if you know,
what power makes
the dark to glow?
What fancy fake
elaborate
lie must I tell
myself
to keep dancing
under the stars
you hung so
exactly
where they are?
• • •
[June, 2009]
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