The Glasses

 

1#
The Glasses

Under that depleting Moonhaze
this blue mind crawls out from her shell
as if in search of a different,
more hospitable ecosystem,
and there's not enough,
magic nor mystery nor music nor musing
that can make that fumble-legged beast
take back her rightful throne
in the thorned unrest of this kingdom.
On nights like these I take to stretching,
out long and lean on the hearth slates,
in child's pose, cat,
cow, cobra or corpse.
I take to milking the moon
of her light and her curling,
turning in white linen,
tucking down for the night,
and when the morning glaze hits,
waning off toward winter
enough to blind the eyes,
I take to laying in,
staying in,
drinking cups of lukewarm coffee,
as if I'm too idle to sup -
avoid eye contact,
go full body stewing,
consume reading,
as if it's oxygen,
it's a novel kind of hobby.
I take to wearing clothes I know
will hide all fat and bones,
until it's so hermitted,
so loathsome and desperate,
that that wayward legged queen,
she tenderly comes on home.