A Page of Sky
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Moon, a smoky melt
pasted. Hangs. Wavers.
Last night flashes.
Cool smell in dry grass.
Northern lands so warm.
Built stupidly.
Lower branches of trees
removed for visibility.
For the long view.
Not for this heat.
They said you could walk on the forest beneath you so tiny were the birch
and brush even small wooden stems of hundreds of years under neon green.
The nearby hills are grey with snowfields even in summer and his jacket
keeps out mosquitos I remember swimming in the old dredge ponds
This night what’s left
of burning? No smoke—
the freeze of sun
(clouds) whisper
a sweet nothing.
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what was left and their muddy banks the water full of leeches who cared
the rivers so icy cold there were not moments just seconds to dip in
gold eyeshadow for us to play with and water so clear we drank it.
The Listening Moon
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This night what’s left of burning? No smoke
but headache in my back. Even natural foods
wilt the freeze of sun. Come to me
my little ones! (clouds) whisper
a sweet nothing or two with sugar
down a page of sky so absent.Â
Moon turning flamey smokey melt.
Pasted WAVERY. Last night flashes
 cool smell dry grass. Lower branches
removed for visibility. Long view
this heat. The sea a warm blanket.