better days
float though my memory
like an incandescently lit moon
we can pluck it from the sky
and hallucinate a sweeter tune
to hum as we walk
over granite grey roads;
and dead lines of thick chalk
a lonely sick moon
mourning the ruin
of its earth-mother love
we have taken and forsaken
like a little toxin
gulped down with water
eyes bulging.
the green tree frog asked,
how do you like you poison?