White After Dark

trees cut white into pages
cut the light into radio waves
roll the fog to make diplomas

hours roll upon knuckles
sky raises its moon like a nightstick
black and blue and white

time is sanctuary cut time open
the cross cut curls like a finger
licked to lift the pages

Hackberry Moon

The untenable bloat
of a star-fed night
the belt of blackened sky
finds the end of its catches
and drawers, breaches the opened

Window of evening
baring to the plebeian fields
a pimpled moon—abruptly
   speeds away toward the dawn
rattling what remains

Of leaden, time-bound constellations
in a hooting, waxing mood
pranking the polished mirror
where the cosmos appear—

Did you see that, dear?

Moon

I bark at the bathroom mirror
dark with its memories
of unshaven face.

I shine, like the moon
with a light from elsewhere.

Full of myself, like the moon
our appearances in the world
dictated by cyclic spin
or worse, calendars.

I fade, like the moon
dimmed by fleeting clouds.

My madness perks up its ears
the jitters, looking for skin
to crawl, come moonrise.