Sharon Kourous
New Moon
It holds beyondness of bleak. In the perhaps other,
drained. The moon: a solid in sky round
emptiness, it holds the words. Perhaps smothers
them. Silence goes there. Possibly music hounds
your memory chained there. Trees’ long black tines
tear at some stars. Clouds, wind-raced, fly; cold
silence finds rootveins’ tendrils; lank skeins
unwind in my wrists. Dark. Wonder what holds
the together of me now there is no -
Oh it’s a grave thing, this solid silence, this still
windsped moon. See. How my two feet go
waterlapped in twicedark sky, how I will
reflect no light, how the beyond will claim
my lightless flight, having no name.
Page(s) 44
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