Blue Moon


spread fingers are useless for grasping
inevitability and disbelief…

is it possible for a blue moon’s light
to lose its grip and slip
into master waves
to drown in a thousand fathoms deep

or for the night to thin, stretched and taught
as wretched twists and turns
of hearts once gold
turn away to sleep one thousand dreams deep

and all the love you have becomes billowing
draft swept under cold sheets;
wrinkles are bolstered by shadows, their carved
blood seeps from wounds one thousand cuts deep

spread fingers stroke contours less lifelike, touch becomes
sharp like cold air inside lungs when it runs loose.


Last Horizon


The moon has cast its shadow
on the cradle of water
beneath its heavy sighs.
Where the silver depths have risen
and broken lines have been crossed
and lap over the divide,
lucidity brushes against the grit
of shores; touched by the rocking
motion’s of its arms, they
are kept from waking.
Waves crash and wrap
their feathered shawl around
new beginnings. New tides,
urgent and strong, are eager
to leave again and begin
a journey  – a voyage of their own –
attempting escape before being thrown
mercilessly, and scattered on rocks
of uncertain point.




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