I.
Could be years before moon comes again.
I make a clean nightly blessing, never purer
yesterday than today. I allow myself
a calming beverage when day has alltheway
worn down. Like some traveler, moon gives
credence to whited winter branch,
makes of every new town a sweet nerve,
town tired of looking in the mirror rejuvenated
if not refurbished in travelermoon’s eyes. Moon
may nevermore come, or could just be waiting
for my dearest, most open moment.
I make fires & throw in gemstones
that the moon not fear me desperate.
Moon, if pearl, prefer not be coveted,
prefer be admired, respected, depicted,
not pulled down from milkblack fabric.
Of course I be a sidewalk sidewinding,
pulling out my own grasses for undertire crush.
I need no grasses, no puddles. If I be
a naked path, a naked prayer, then I be
my most touchable when moontime arise.
Length of a blurred moment. I: antenna,
stuck in wild wind, make signal unreportable,
for there be no switchboard commander.
I: glasscrack dome, slither in raindrops my skin,
pummel my bloodflesh with lightning & snow,
inhabitants grow curious why soul bears crack,
why weather goes so unrepelled. Tarot moon:
open thine craters! bear no napkin smudge.
I be the cleaner of misdirected foe. I know
no sleep like moonsleep, when I
am unchunked from earth, lifted to space.
II.
Felt red feet make porch wobble,
reckoned traveler breached home yard,
& I, supposing respite
from lonesome moonphase worry,
crumpled all my tissues,
buried them in firewood,
watched tear make spark & smoke.
Quoth I:
Put stiff weapon aside, carry out
nebulous proof elsewhere.
Take care to remain unclean.
Sanctuary begs no spotlessness.
Leopard came ready with spots; on human
whittled down to cheek & nose contexture,
sometime within iris, crystal salt bloom.
Put down dream-swath canvas, corner-frayed
& browned by travel, do not use
your hand to indicate, use your hand
to touch, touch me & treebark,
light up elsewise locus, put down
dream-swath canvas, proceed to naked dark.
He came into my arms. Heard him whisper,
couldn’t tell what. Then he slept.
I never believed him when he spoke,
but I never told him so.
I liked him best in truthless motion,
chewing a fingernail, drinking water slow.
He knew this.
We never said anything.
He drank of me as from a faucet,
I fed him like a mother does
a barren, wayward son.
Arthur Elliot 