Moon

 

Absences are incense,
senseless divinities
cradled by months,
moths of you painting
fork patterns by night,
the fall out of needles
caught under foot
traipsing through fresh
thickets of pine,
mushrooms to satchels
later soaked in wine,
careless of origin,
that sublime space
where our ghosted frames
paper thin, paired in white,
meet and seep away -
to riled, spat oil sound,
your softened, light decay,
fingers frazzled with misfortunes
returning to me as retellings,
hunting you across
haunted reservations
without reservation,
pulse evades,
your steady thrum
no longer set to race
when I rest
watch hour on hour,
day on day
blister like seasons
unaltered by a sash,
draped panes.
I wonder how
you pass those vacant
strands of time,
if you hang
on Autumn Moons,
devour dripping stars.