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.