new moon

The window is always open. The night is always on its way. Bones that were wrecked before their reckoning bloom anew. The drag and draw of the patient furious earth, the tip toe touch of the unseen tide, the fabric woven fresh through the shabby shape that burns bright below your dreams. Your confetti kisses and wry unyielding eyes, the rollick in the way you wear your self. The clock always counting. The sun kissing shade to root.

The night carries on, all wrack and rattle. A banging from the backyard, the rasp of this blue bias sight. I can’t tell which storm to weather. I don’t know which cat to call. The oldest wounds ache on and on. The endless stare of the the occluded goddess bending the boughs to their knees, as the winds schemes and clouds goggle. Trees sigh with a cracking like that of bones, a wooden shifting from root to crown, the sway of contrition sweeping the eaves.

I am ever the unspent letter, the composition of the never said. Moaning from moment to moment. Limping from score to score, I am the stain of clumsy strings and guileless song. The page a blind prophecy, hurtling on and on across the expansion. The lyric skies and the joyous soil. Spiraling further away down the night.