(from the moon series)
on the table. Waits.
Eases into form.
Opens eyes. Closes eyes.
Doesn't want to know the truth.
Knows the truth. Braces.
Feels the grasp of a hand,
the softness of lips,
the delicate oak table,
the return to equilibrium.
Time passes.
Dreams at night of the end,
of the beginning. Which is which?
The mouths, the tails.
The hand that feeds..
the monster?
The clock winds along, red sand
drips through the eye.
The questions mount.
The dust collects.
Pretty soon
glass half moon
turns back to ocean.
Shrugs shoulders.
Becomes cliche
on the tongue of eternity
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