Twenty-Eight Lines on the Moon
The moon does not structure sound.
Though he has heard her songs in his bones.
The man will not carry off the moon,
But he might be able to bear her silence.
She cradles his journey
As she canoes the river.
The moon does not appear stable,
But she wears age like a diamond.
The man will stare at her
And refuse to gaze on his own madness.
Her bald eye is a slow blink,
A constancy of new.
He carves life cycles around her.
The moon does not touch him,
Just ties him with yellow circles.
The man separates his gravity from her,
But she pulls his mind over jagged rocks.
He is romanced by her candles,
But his breath blows out the stars
When he heaves under her glow.
The moon swallows his sacred promises,
Eats the meat right out of his memories.
The man will lip her breasts
Imagining he sucks twin moons.
He often ponders the unity of reflected light,
How centuries before him, people birthed and bathed
And buried their dead beneath that same moon:
The moon’s secrets hint like scent.
