The moon rises above the flimsy bough,
As the stream ends
Into a whispered ire on torrid diamonds
I see the death of forgotten winds stowed
As the river bends
And I whisper to the descent of… this darkened night chastened.

I whisper into my hands of this creased moon
That abandons the lights
And I go under the facile crystal flames
That embrace me into the settled claret bloom
And when I abandon the sights,
I admire the carnations where they lay

In old pots, worn with cracks and shone by old stars,
Where nectar drips a tempered wind
And I visit memory’s universe;
I dwell on presence in the shallow dream afar
Where I wouldn’t know a hymn
That the dry land rattles in a ruse immersed.

2 thoughts on “The Moon Rises.

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