The moon has a thin veil to shed
a transparent mask fastened to the skyway.
Its vanity is a temporal emissary
to the distant lampshade it becomes
cool and aloof
its grave aspect, like a faceless woman
turning towards me suddenly,
recalls the Japanese tales of Noppera Bo
and its the sea that receives the glow,
the sorrowful fallout of her vacancy.
Spellbound on the silvery sets,
the wave face wept in isolation,
betraying the dark behind her creation.
She draws in luminous figures,
solitary strays, clouds clinging to light
but without warmth
will not linger for long.
See them cast in dissipating craft
to disembody at the precipice,
the Nuuanu Pali disassembling into a V
where the past is trapped
under the gravity of its vortex,
one colossal hex
on the volcanic continuity of rims.
Yet there is a transcendence
to this slant of light
as it imbues these sublime heights
while I pursue the fine line
between logic and superstitious flight
on the narrow paths
all the moments that won’t last
get between me and time.
Taking another precarious step
to strike a balance between guesses
and surefooted surrender
to the next precious expression
I fall under.
yakskinpocketnotes 