old moon

The wounds all go untreated. No-one can find the soul. Instead the empty is clotted with whispers. Instead the shadows are fed shed skin and green leaf. The yard is full of tracks and traces, strange landings and odd partners. The world goes on, lamenting that dwindling light, secretly delighted to devour that last gasp of tomorrow. The world goes on, glutted on blood and vitriol, while raccoons ransack my garage each night.

Outside the day stirs up dust and trouble. Inside the hallway is thick with dogs. Negotiations remain fruitless, so the walls endure their slow dissolve, the sky its smattering of applause. Rattle-glass basslines and the dull report of car alarms. The wind slowly grinding the world into glass. I receive a letter from a midnight yet to be, half valentine, half ransom. The stars say wait and watch us fall. My shadow crumples beneath my feet.

Spells are cast and prayers are spoken. Something dear is lost forever, some new darling discovered washed ashore. All the alloted aches and pains assemble, bemoaning the losses borne of skin-tone and status. Cigarettes spill their fumes out of ashtrays, flecks of ashes, rumors of bone. The sky changes directions and swaps coats, somewhere along the in-between. The old gods all monsters, the new gods at best thieves. The old moon all but gone along the firmament, the new moon dozing in its dreams.