what the moon is made of (20160618)

the sun isn’t even down
and the moon has already
more than cleared the horizon
(i could measure the angle
using that old trick by
laying fist on top of fist
like bricks)

only a ghost hiding behind clouds
that roll like cream
curdling in pale, lemon-heavy tea

did i say ghost?
the moon is a pile of
polished bones
rounded by a little circle

it sees things
and my bones see things
and from the sky
i can see myself look up
at myself
wondering when i will blink

gold and ghosts (poem 20160513)

the mining town is full of ghosts
phantom families drifting
from shop to shop
buying ice cream
that evaporates in this heat
ghost workers and tour guides
repeating their lines on a loop in
this rough and disheveled tourist trap
not even the original town
recreated with old haunted wood
spirit that i am
i pay my money for the mine tour
and the train ride
and wish for a real ghost
to glide out of the shadow
of the mountain