(from the moon series)
on her back, slides through sheets,
in the windows of winter, under clouds
that move quicker than smoke
in the blue sky, with finger prints
that disappear just after touch.
She wants and she moans,
she writhes and times the gasps
between radio fuzz. She slips
through the holes of time, dormant
adventure repressed. She tells
the world in stories, the man
who bought a whale, the lizard
and the tunnel, the fabrics of the night.
She explains love and yet
she's only been to Germany.
But that moon, that moon
on her back, the muse
of a million dead writers
and an insignia that looms
in the dark hours of loneliness.
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