Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Ghost moon, bled dry

In which things are transient: seasons, lunar bodies, old poems

You know what's inevitable in the fall? Frost. Frost kills everything -- the last lazy crickets, the damn mosquitos, the fading flowers, the last tomatoes on the vines, green and red. Thirty-two is all it takes and boom. Dead. Not happened yet, but it's coming.

The blood moon bled dry this morning, and we remembered this

Ghost Moon

Ghost moon, barely there,
no more solid than
the thin cirrus clouds
that hang nearby --
I see blue through you.
What lunation brings you
to this light side of day,
where the sky consumes you,
and you become the cloud --
Did I dream of you, ghost moon?

You know what I love? Champagne.

Wake up the dawn and ask her why / A dreamer dreams she never dies / Wipe that tear away now from your eye / Slowly walking down the hall / Faster than a cannon ball / Where were you when we were getting high?

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