Frame the Moon
Furred out, cased, paned and trimmed,
the opening of a window.
From my position here on the floor
in supine half-spinal twist,
my quarter-revolving eye catches
a perfectly sliced-in-half moon centered
in the upper right corner of the upper
left pane of a window blued by a sky
somewhere between baby-boy daytime
and electric-transvestite midnight –
the perfect globe cleavered by
a celestial butcher-boy –
the first half of hope, not the last,
depending, I suppose, on your viewing point,
mine being spine suppliant to floor,
floor kissing earth and holding the kiss,
earth sucking me hard, the half-moon
mullioned and muntined,
one four-millionth of a light-year away,
beaming me up and off from here –
half an inkling that, when the bones wave
their white phalanges of surrender
to whatever pulls us down – some unthing,
some weightless, scentless, tasteless,
wan thing, draws me up into a moon’s
glowy, showy, half-assed bliss.