8-13-2016

Cirrus clouds
Flake like flint
Against the half-moon,

Shifting,
Fine grain in knife handle

Where that moon,
Ever noted, has remained,
Cat-eye
Over maples,

And where train sounds have gone
Too close to the sleeping children.

All night,
The sky
Thins to edge and whittles away
The top of the old world’s breath.

I am still waiting underneath it,
Carving my names into
The triangles made by the
Stars above this hemisphere