A big bright moon flutters on the building
Red and dead, pale from a far off eclipse.
A local eclipse over mom – sponsored bath
Is only recalled as we remember her dead.

The moon is dead from mother’s story on,
A moon rising to be dead for eavesdropping
On a demon taking nectar to stealthy lips
Defying a moon-like beauty in rows of gods.

A hunter’s moon shall rise, whole and bright
To be slow-eaten in crumbs by a penumbra.
Good, we are not to be blamed for this here.
It is a bloody American moon that is eaten.



The thread around a tree is dream
Woven by battered wives, for son
Needing visa or husbands health.
They tie the aging tree’s torso with
A hundred rounds of their dreams
As many as the rings around its life.

The tree has its dreams in leaf-ends,
They make a screech sound when
Children slide fingers in spit on them
To produce funny laughing sounds.
If only the tree could have a thread
For its own dreams, when its leaves
Make a soft moaning sound at night
When battered by a far off sea wind .