When you can’t make sense of the moon
and you perish the thought of more thinking
but “ here they come “... and the hour is late upon you
like truant aspiration, delirious and cactus-eyed
in the palm of unbelievable hands.
You are the first one to not know how this feels.
and you feel it! It’s like a frozen cadet in a permafrost trench
in a field of poppies and happy landmines.
like a grim pregnant pause on the cusp of a vacation
to chrysanthemums that have never been to war
on purpose.