Poesy #14

You can’t wish on the moon
any more than you can wish
on the sparks that drop
from the outlet
when you’re careless with the plug –

but you’ll try anyway,
painting your face with
the silver that crumbles
between the clouds.

You’d bite your own hand
to go under again;
to blink and see lights,
feel the sun like a neon sign,
taste things
like they were crawling
down your spine.

White light breaks
on the pavers on your walk,
scatters on your body,
gathers on your face.
If you hear no reply,
maybe you’d better
take your things and go.

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