July 1999

The moon makes patterns on my floor,
leaf-edged and almost still.

The thick blanket of night silence cushions
the little sounds
of talking wood,
the rhythmic heartbeat of a dripping tap,
a bark in the distance
that is passed on faithfully in highs and lows
to north and south and east and west.
I wish I understood its message.

Sensitivity quivers
and a hundred crawling perplexities
mate and multiply and mutate
into grotesque monsters
that pulse electric shock
after shock
after shock
until the patterns on the floor
reduce them to limp, exhausted slugs.

I long for night to end and never end.

Leaf-edged and almost still,
the moon makes patterns on my mind.