Jun 20, 2007
She eats moon shards on Sundays.
Quickly, when no one is looking,
she plucks the moon from the sky,
then snaps it into little pieces of jagged light.
She promises to save fragments in her pill box,
but then presses them on her tongue;
resolve dissolving like wafers.
After all, she could always choose,
from a host of Sunday moons,
to chew more holes in her eyesight.
Labels: dark, moon, philosophy, poetry, politics
