Half moon


the architecture of my hometown is a recollection's accomplice covered in the half-light of late day and coming in at a half-wit's hard angle, but the better half;

a drunken poet's ratio of half-lid to white-eye tilting toward a vision of the western light tangled in the shadows of the northern sunshine's southern habit.

and now the liberated verse of an evergreen's top is flinging its arms out at the loaded moment of celestial umbra, flailing in the black of its own silhouette where it fractures the horizon and pauses briefly

for humanity's long repose

with a prose that is prone to ferns near its toes and the sap-quenching wetness of weather.

history is zipped up by language at the point where the pine passes the close edge of our passive skyline and falls silent against a conclusion of black night sky paled by what is left of blue and then

 caught in the static half of timeless life.