bone-dust moonlight

the moon, nearly full
shone down like a white omen
bathing all it touched
in misty frost
and there we all were
alit, within
its bone-dust moonlight
milling, piled like insects
watching television
and holding elections
doing our small things
and there we all were
fucking, and driving
and praying
and some of us–
just watching the moon
as she was watching us
and I imagine
when we go
when finally, she takes us
home
we might awaken
to a frigid-morning mist
which never lifts
above the oak’s lowest boughs
aye, a still and silent place
perhaps, a new beginning
tho without middle, or end
and even the children’s laughter
held, too far– into distant afternoon
to warm again
the hollow

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