Poem: Moonless

 

Moonless

patient as the ribs

of Pluto,

birches crowd a dirt road,

 

the last sight

tired eyes can seek

unless

 

angels swoops down,

tearful as prophets

in the belly of blindness.

 

i sit cross-legged

in a snarl of dew,

whittling tinder

 

with a knife

which cannot be seen

in this forest of dim bones

 

and i peer

into the pitch dark

as if it were a sad mirror

 

i had swallowed.

 

 

 

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