Poem: Hungry Moon

 

Hungry Moon

 

a bat is nothing but a cursed fly,

a shriveled cherub,

mene mene scrawled tenebrous.

 

songbirds are long gone flirts,

tasty arpeggios,

no longer to titillate

every pore on the body of sound.

 

sunset, it's always the same,

the same cheshire cat grin, 

fiery languors on spent horizons, 

stashing the feathery morsels away.

owls and loons, 

too lean and haunted,

the cryful crickets 

more boney than plump,

and so the moon, so hungry, 

yearns and yearns in its perch,

craving a new sort of chirr,

some kind of fandago, maybe,

where the dancers 

can actually see each other twirl.

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10/31/23  ... Lots of mods... still not much confidence.