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Drawing The Moon Silent
Tarnished and brackish, bent post under battered bullet,
find wellsprings of endurance under fevered whispy language.
Our cats empty themselves into flowerpots and train whistle
of ambrosia cannot flap the sundered seas into a submission
of hope.
Moon we do admonish. She whispers to us in the sun and pains
us in the day's slumber. She carooms and canoodles and vexes
all certainty, rocking gently in her time, showing the faces
that change. Be still and silent, granite and brecchia omen.
Fevers of abstraction cannot hold epiphanies, the church is
all around in the quiet times of mother's embrace, the rythmic flower choreography of scent, a global dance.
Sun, in our basking, you kill us, we shun you, we screen you, we leave our fathers behind, making ghosts of the words we leave unread in books, chucking them into your furnace.
In the seashore of turtle rapture, swimming with the tides and the failures of pattern and structure, one can admonish the moon no longer, and find the cooling of the sunless sands, and be the one that pulls the moon down.
