It’s when the moon slips into a negligee and births the pitted road with its laced hem slowly gesturing to the face of obscurity.
We make decisions to opine on the vacuous lot our lives gift us as if wounded the mind dulls fears of the storm to come.
Can the apocalypse be so sloppy and so coy as to wrestle an old lady on the mat of memory’s shallows spread out across the space between a tear and its hallow bed?
Where does gravity play tilting ever slowly the flesh of youth until it decimates the murky vat of dreams from which one can never awake unburied in forgetfulness?
If it were not the moon but the slender body of some smoother light… If it were not her but the disappearing alphabet of some other tongue…. If the mumblings in my ear could adorn and not disturb the absence of meaning…
than conceivably the absence her mind has embraced I could become.
Umbriate Press Poetry 