Moon

Wondering what it was —

coming above abandoned buildings,
left cellar,
walls
stuffed with pages,
newsprint
in fatherless fields.

Turns out
it was only the moon,

apocolypse,

blood pressed

moving
over silver

clouds, and
stars, and
glass, lake,

lanternlight
pushing
like strangers
over an old map
through
smoke and frost and
the edges that cornhusks
give,
up. Up.

The
ageless
emblems
emeralding
in transit:

Those Sunday nights
in the church basement.

And all things stilling.

All things hushing,
unafraid.