windrag : poetry : journal

it’s midnight, yet the sky is evening-blue two rings embrace the blinding moon will i ever tire of describing the moon? better ask the moon

cooling-car-songs. crispest sky. a cat sips the moon from a street-puddle. what’s that star in the south, tugging at my eyes reminding me of…what?

loud drops fall from eaves step out. near-full moon burns hole through clouds no thing more

an aspiration: that my fingers deftly dance upon my flute-keys with the gentle grace of the woman braiding her hair in this café (and to cause this same delight)

several flutes, and several kinds of incense and sheaves of music strewn about the wooden buddha suggests i step outside and i’m not up for an argument