1.
I was seeing it through
an enlarged image of my eye.
Magnified
in an optometrist’s portal,
hanging
in the night sky
like a red lantern,
a flowering blood moon
beginning to eclipse.
This thread of lava
upon the edges of sleep,
reveals a mirror,
a thin measure of light
as from a dying star
would accentuate the spheres
on 3AM screens to be
drawn out of cloud cover,
culled from the crude understanding
of dreams, the coincidence
of two orbs,
differing only in scale,
delicately passing
in the dark that reveals
both to each other in time.
2.
Truth was a moon
that waxes and wanes,
receding like the light of certain
smoke obscured beacons,
incoherent
at times skewed like headlights
beaming into forests.
A blinding or illuminating
belief,
at times hardened, until rigid
as a charred landscape
where words offer no traction
in the forgotten fields of history.
Where bonfires
burn all evidence,
blackening the edges
of the past
and what is known.
Nothing is left visible,
no bridge over the swollen flow,
only rock fall and spinning narratives,
headline fear ad infinitum.
Everything appears in transition,
reason is the first to be cast
into volcanic shafts,
covered over by distress
beneath simmering pools
and with each layer
is pushed further under.
3.
Moons above
the dark inlets of sleep,
where beaks seize the dreams
beneath surfaces.
The sunken pebbles,
the unseen watercolors
of an embedded mystery.
Shades in the crane’s river,
given by the baby’s mother,
will float alone
in bathwater.
Serenely seeking the unknown
in a sea with no compass.
Buoyant, weightless,
void of machinery.
Words offer only gravity,
limbs, humanity
as poems branch out in the distance
like a rain tree of bird choruses.
The refrain was just another name for change,
sound passing invisible borders
like footprints on empty beaches.
Estranged swallows
will breach the deep
where the moon disappears
like a blinking eye
on the edge of the horizon
and the watchful sky.
yakskinpocketnotes 