Should we say that the moon will be white tonight,
glowing in magnetic waves
that cup the darkness like water’s palms,
the water’s waves that push our backs,
the light against our backs like the music of a drum,
each beat a desire’s dance to fit our empty songs,
to fill one with the other with the moonwhite
white of the moon?
Or should the moon be new-black, dark,
with no arch where we can send our burning embers
that we seek in each other’s breath
and to reflect our dreams of proto-flames
that reach a flashpoint that we reach
when the dark moon returns
the light we send?
Or no moon, for there are four other moons,
simultaneous moons by simultaneous authors
who seek their light and set it aside
to gaze at the great hypnosis
like moths, like zombies climbing from ash graves,
long burned, no fires, no light,
no moons?
