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Ill of the MoonI am grievedthat I must speak illof the moon.I have nightly watched it waneand wax back to fullsince we conspired between those mirrors...and you snared me with your smile.Yet no phase,however brilliant,has served to distract,or made me less alone.Oh, you have been a constantinhabiter of my thoughts.Somewhere in transitdelivered the sweetest torment;you rocked me-- dear apparition--and kissed my lips;then sunk down smilingbeneath the horizon;riding on the moon.I arose possessing sighsthat stretched out for miles;All the distance betweenmy cup of teaand your abandoned cigarette--they reached to wipe the ashes from your hands;they reached to run their fingers through your hair;they reached for the moon.
Faery FeastOne evening in JuneYou and I slipped out of timeand escaped to the faery feast;breathed in the honey air,kissed the willow wisps,and watched the firefliesdance by the creek.We ate the fruits of Venusand coveted their stones--wrote messages on themand hid them in our pocketsas talismans.Laughed with sparrows late into the nightrecounting romancesand getting drunk on moon,and rose petals,and blackberry wine.Plotted ways to stop the sunfrom erasing the darknessand dissolving the evidenceinto morning dew.But I was lucky enoughto snatch a violet horizon;and I wrapped it in silver wings--a token preserved in starlightto ensure that these yearswill never fadethe magicfrom your heart.
VacuumThere was a timewhen the dreaming poolsplunged deep--generous in being whole.And I swamthe breadth ofseven heartbeatslooping back from end;bending forth--until the mirrors shatteredand the vacuumsucked me dry--the exoskeletonthat was blown away;and what is leftare only impressionsof leaves on the pavement.
ReleasedIn the nightI have found youhovering above meas you once did;like a satellitepulling at my water--delighting my depthswith your weight.It has roused the spanwhere I carved youfrom my heart--marked with those momentsspinning farand farther in our tracks;and appear nowlittle more than a dreamof years divided from the hoop--a lost seasonwhen our two loves made a wholeand parted as beings forever altered.It may have been that my swelling tideshave dried up;or perhapsI have just been releasedfrom gravity.
The MediaOur children are sufferinga parade of false imagesand are resolvedto deny the treasureof who they areand aspire to bea painted corpse.