Crescent moon mostly a shadow mostly nothing absence of light each night listening for the voice hearing it wishing I hadn’t– the matte of lack having plenty but just not that– the rest is black but this silver sliver shiny as promise pulling like desire like a hook through the mouth
That full moon like a brass button studding the night, implying perforation, adeherence, closure. In some places it was occluded, tarnished– but we couldn’t see it from where we sat, adrift in a deep night that fell like a curtain. For every word a third unspoken. That full, full moon and the Earth’s shadow encroaching. The very papable weight of nothing.
I don’t know why I opened windows to let in such heat or why I’m almost tempted to sleep outside if not that there’s no such thing as safe or shelter might as well accept it the offer of fresh air and the way the day falls off into night and wakes with a chill blue moon you know just what I am here for
Whatever this is I’m attributing to the moon it’s probably due to wine or the hour, empty things exerting more pull, being more of a lure than those that are full— . It’s late, the small dog’s snore belying its size: or, what seemed large is small, or, what is small, seemed large.
A reluctant return, a drag behind the motion, why? I still think of you now and again. A year, five, a loss of distinction, like water, difficult to define or bind. Is it because I’ve stopped trying, trusting blindly in gravity, sheer weight of will, pale and barren but exerting some pull? Another year condensed into a drop, the phase changes, properties too, but the laws are adhered to (but which? but whose?) If the night […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 