Strange Moons

In trying to heal the wound that never heals lies the strangeness.

-Federico Garcia Lorca

Fine the days & dispensations, these morbidities

hunger & snow, veins of iron blood warming.

Scouring rain, pitiless drought, hard ubiquities.

To sit, write, walk and work

shadow these rare practices

that compost an artist into ether

Wendy said this, or something

like it, from her salmon window

in a letter with vegetable flowers

As the world leaves & sight dims

there is less to do but wait without

waiting for dawn to come

And a pen meets an eye

near a body with a heart

in the garden at sunrise.