floating and leaving no trace
let me draw you
my little french girl
i’ll cover you
with a sheet of tracing paper
–not acetate
that’s too true–
that flimsy filmy stuff
we got in math class
and art class
and geography when we traced
the states
so we can trace
the state of things
translucent as they say
letting light pass through
but not transparent
because too much light
is same thing as seeing nothing
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
Words and Feathers 