Moonrise
waves clutch and snatch,
but can’t down the shine.
clouds, stealthy as squid,
cling with furlongs of suckers;
but no sea, not even the underbelly
of a wolf with fangs of cirri,
loping through the night,
can swallow again
what has already been.
not now. not
this reach,
these canters which shimmer
to outride.
only patches
of fur left.
a tentacle wisp.
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