(Untitled)
It’s time.
Done for the day
the moon slinks out of the river
her discarded silver skin
a mercury petticoat
dancing in the deep
oiled by the slip of fish
which hone their path to the river root.
Birds seek sleep in the glistening underdark
of their wings.
In the dark, insects chew more loudly.
Their gossip rises like steam.
Inhaling, the moon draws up
the lisped hisses in a long stream
and the earth rolls in her wake
slowly falling off in flakes
floating mementoes
translucent reminders to return
before morning.
Page(s) 68
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