(from the moon series)
The sky, ah the sky,
the black dripping sky.
Sits. Hungry.
Doesn't believe
in eating other moons.
Hangs on by threads.
Knows the world is changed
and remembers how it is was.
Remembers the nights on couch, warm
breath on neck, the throws and the soups
and the why-don't-we-ever-go-out-anymore.
Remembers and wakes
and must keep moving
for the thieves.
Just the skeleton moon now.
Just the frame of a muse.
Just the frail body and stretched
canvas across bones.
Just the reminders of time
and the answer to how long
forgotten. Just the horizons
wisped smoky tendrils engulfing
road moon.
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