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“lonely moon”
___the wolves perch along the ___bare
bark of the land, sheer
teeth that glint like forest fire
among ___the soldiers of pines flanking
the mountain.
___stand by me, and
our skin hardens into
peaks and valleys, our cells
all beating and panting, every
hair and crevice standing and
shouting for life.
___and the ___atmosphere ___is dust
and campfires, your tongue lights with
crackling embers of the naked
sun, the stark ___gulp of the night,
swallowing
sight. one last glimpse,
you— ___your hair limping around
___your eyes, chubby hands tucked
___in your pockets, the blossom of your small
___mouth stained with blackberry juices and
___whispers that fall heavy and ___stillborn
___into the dry, pine air.
the sky ___cries between
___trees— long and wan, echoing
___with the silent ___crackling aurora
___and dry moans of wolves, rimming
___the chalice of the blue and boiling
___valley ___with burning mountains, lit with
___molten dusk. ___campfires
sprout among the great roots
of the mountain, roaring
with songs and laughter, the curling,
sticky warmth of family, delicious
suffocation of flannel and flesh.
___but out here space is ___rent and
open, humming ___with depth and width.
___stars flood the inches ___between ___us,
universes twirl and ___fall and
sigh ___into burning dust, you sigh
into me, cold ___breath cascading like
an avalanche in the aching
___dark.
wolves yelp and shout
us,
the lonely ___moon.
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