Monday, November 26, 2012


The moon is small & yellow
& hides in a leafless tree
Like a strange clock w/out
Need of hands for it knows
Down to the very second &
Plenty of it to dangle before
Me as a last gasp does a
Dying man & who could
Take a photograph of such
A moon who could endure
The very possession of
It for what man can live such
A life incessantly reminded
Of his last exhalation & so
Perhaps I’ll simply save
This memory for when
That time comes I shall
Need it to sit beside that
Yellow moon & silently
Peer between the


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