inhaled by the moon
on a night before full
as gauzy ghost fingers
grip the violet night
almost as if they were clouds
glowing with bone-light moonbeams
softly drifting like gossamer owl wings
over aubergine skies pin-holed by planets
and speckled with only the brightest of stars

even broken words
can point to the horizon
indicating the wholeness
of the swollen moon
as it hangs low and heavy
tumbling along in the
fullness of its cycle

even broken words
can point upward
indicating the infinite
in the cathedral skies
as translucent layers of
impossible number
and impossible shades of blue
together compose the deepest color
of the symphonic midday sky

even broken words
can heal