veiled in moss her moon kills,
grape cluster moons
carcases on stilts
vomiting will like gasoline
stuck to the cave,
a stain judging stains,
cuddling bones on the staircase,
steal beak,
pierced,
sallow tears,
sagging ugliness,
masks, ordeals
bullet holes, fissures, sweat,
we don’t speak about fear.
the sleep killing moon,
tearing through the afternoon
daring you to let it go
hells dancing in purview of holy mole deals,
a hook in the cheek,
they look up to the weak and the creeps,
slinking deep through the seems
sucking use from blind seizures
and pushing their faces in steam
punching the orchid-flayed christs
pulling the blanket of shames, this relief,
over eyes that dart sideways and crease
in the night,
in the shit and the grease.
The yellow moon crawls,
and she stinks like fire
like a festering brawl,
and she weeps like the drains
flies in a fall,
she inverts until nothing gives birth to all.
She opens now, stolen herself from the stall,
she bounds into the night,
sings over the law,
chimes into the gall-spattered halls
caskets of awe,
blooms like a coil of the March resolve,
in the dream haze, but far
from the racket she wore,
estranged from her channels, her pain-fields, her walls,
exposed to the air,
to the soft of her will, where you fall,
the vapors that danced her to sleep are dispelled
and she coughs
the dewed light that clings to her skin
her morning is drinking you in
then she expands like a drop to the rims of a vault
wrapped in being like a star
in the night’s burning shawl