Poem of the Week | October 26, 2026

“Observations meant to enlighten can also obscure” by Bob Hicok is our Poem of the Week.

Title image: A Distant View of the Hudson River in the Fall (1873) by Jasper Francis Cropsey

***

Observations meant to enlighten can also obscure

No one had to teach moonlight  
how to whisper. And sharks  
are natural vacuum cleaners.  
They found a wallet, license plate,  
astrolabe, and loneliness 
in one I saw cut open  
in Santa Monica. Saint Monica  
sounds like someone you wouldn’t mind  
going to a movie with. She’d share her popcorn  
and not tell you if she figured out  
who the killer was.  
If it was that kind of movie 
in that kind of life. This life. 
I lasted half a day on the suicide hotline. 
Wasn’t cut out to tell the woman 
who cried the whole time, whose cancer  
had Alzheimer’s, who was broke  
and alone and afraid of the dark, 
that she had so much to live for. 
I wanted to be honest and tell her  
she had so much to die for,  
so I quit and took a job  
raking leaves for the city. It’s like  
Heraclitus said: you never rake  
the same leaves twice.  
And the noise they make  
is kind of like the murmur in a bar,  
so I never feel alone. A psychiatrist 
once asked me if a glass  
was half full or half empty. 
This was after I was released  
from the restraints. 
Without thinking, I said the glass  
is thirsty and so am I.  
Moonlight whispers as if afraid  
of waking the baby up. 
When I close my eyes and press my ear 
to the sky, I hear nothing, 
which is the mother of nothingness, 
calling me home. 

***

About the Author:

Bob Hicok’s latest book is Breathe (Copper Canyon Press, 2026).