waiting with the moon

seems an impossible destination
unless I draw my breath
someone will drive by
walk by,
or the birds will not shut up
in my head

white noise
crumbles on and on
dead leaves
were sucked into the radio
or crinkled up
in front of the tv dish

it looks like the moon
half dipped in shadows
and quarter caught in the sun
matches the drain-plug
in the bottom of my brain
after a long day

dark smoke sets on open fields
after the sun does
the fog reflects shadows
and dew won’t shine
I am a moth to a houselight
a fly to a headlight

patiently straining
for a mind on a pedestal
in my arms
set on the ground
and in the air
humming and spider’s silk

perfect taut blue sky
or smooth rocks and sand
no prisms, I sit
down waiting with the moon


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