draft from Lou Collab.
The Drawn Moon
The moon is a cave, everyone knows that
stars of light out of earliest thoughts
drawn out, from where it turns in you
turns real, drawing itself clear
lines. We are so vulnerable
hands telling the truth on us, on what we thought
we had. So once more look over your shoulder
and for the first time listen to what the moon has to say.
Moon says me. In this theatre, I sing reflected under
the nunnery windows, this city across the river
this greatest secret you first saw in you, and lost across
the world, danced under, wise flamenco
in the privacy of tambourines. Like a cave, the moon
is like a cave, I say, it’s all in the collarbone (and brain, spine, it’s you),
rift of the real you run your hand along: eating the city
gathering up the moon to take back with you.
Back to the moon. But we’re already there.
Who could know this but a cat? Who else could have seen it,
long ago, in Switzerland, where the moon returns to itself
in the caves. What could it mean but love me with your private animal.
(6/?/15)
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