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Moon-Witted, Moon Wilted
As gravity softens skin’s tender folds,
all grows tentative. Questions
come knocking, demanding solar eloquence.
Stutter-speech answers the door.
Porch light’s dim. Who’s there?
Who’s really there?
This stands sweating on splintered threshold, That
in tow. Verity stumbles up creaking stairs
trailing moonlit shadow—
low, high, wide, lasered slow.
A crooked fingertip flattens rooftops.
Maiden moon rises west,
splays north or south,
tumbles into any bed she damn well pleases.
Foghorn brays through every heart,
sets it booming moonward.
Blood-rush, spurting vein.
Moon-witted. Moon wilted.
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By Hiro Boga. To Be Soul · Launched 2 years ago
Poetry, essays, creative explorations, & inner adventures.
