The Moon

January 19, 2011
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The rusty vibrations
of a violin that has not been
played in far too long.
Have you ever seen sick
infants sleeping? As if they
were begging with eyes
like fading stars to be in
their original homes.
It is the hair of the dead,
it is the night jasmine
you can smell but can not see
in hedges blacker
than any pit of hell.
It is light-dark and dark-light
as workmen wonder with
eyes too tired to close in sleep.
The moon is waiting for
you with broken chandeliers,
every white animal you have
ever seen,
and enough light to
bleach every bit of you.
It knows where you hide
your spare change,
and what you were going
to buy with it.





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