As you fall graceful
From the moon
Like some kind of
Goddess
Al I want
Is to worship
And love you
To kiss your curves
And body as we
Make love
My blessed
Moonfall
Come and kiss me

It is hard to explain
When you work the midnight shift
You only seam to exist in nightshades
Not the warm daylight hues and tints

When sunshine becomes
Inverse in your tired mind
And days are measured by
Moonrise and moonfall

When solar heat
Is just a sweet precursor
To the night that cools you
And the sunrise signals slumber

How sweet it is
To interrupt this with
With a day
Spent awake
Surrendering to the
Splendor of the sun

i feel alive, again, sunrise ---
this is all too strange, noon high ---
i don't want it, early eve ----

i wonder what
it would feel like
to be

alive,

moonfall.

This is where I will love you,
from the waves of your storms,
and the echoing wind from the east,
they are no anchorage,
but the way you sound—
it was close to home.

Because truth is darling,
your brokenness is the place
where I am going to stay—
forget the unburning cigars
you left on my lips—
it burnt me off to the
patches of your kiss,
the swirling black holes
you have tug on my chest—
all warm with the rainfall of
chrysanthemum petals.

This is where I will love you,
no sunrises or moonfall—
it does not entangle with
star-written poetry
you took halfway,
the late-night drive
that ends with
laying down on
your chest or
the subway walks
that we ended up
chasing the moon.

darling, this is where I will love you,
from the ends of your fall,
to the last bit of your
sunsets.

It came to be; tufts of time were grazed upon by anteaters who were the     spatial creatures,
       
           You can hear the foliage of time being nibbled away, savoured, never a meal rushed.

            I sit with the leprechauns of the day's thoughts, the storm approaching, clear evidence
       
           God is breathing. Like me, God is a thinking man - thinking in storms, never galvanising.

The television, switched off at moonfall, broadcasts an audible & contented peace,

           Among kingdoms of man-made things, all have their private heroes & recalcitrant hobos.

            I sit and listen to the storm like an awkward student meeting his idol under intellectual mistletoe,

           On the ricepaper of my mind; inscriptions, barely inked, they all speak the language of Place.

The letters are in the correct holes, the bronze napkin ring holds the
soft blue earth,

           Hundreds of people crying suddenly stop. Guilt falls like an avalanche of gulls.

           Squared-off lawns giggle over the gutter's edge, through the night's muted hedgerow,

           I ask an orphan for directions, he points to the wilderness with his spare foot. I follow.


My eyes are bare and my feet feel the moist cicadas and my wings become theirs,

           A thousand people stop crying. They see that Life can go no faster, and love is an unused motor.

           And the sparrow's claw is aware of its purpose, the wind swims between my ribs & whispers...
       
           "I've seen it work before." Memory's from the future; spume of something greater.