I.
The moon hangs from hooks
Dangling like a prophecy of tides
Dismantled in the air
A smear of broken light
It needs little but thin air and
A wedge of cloud, back-lit
It falls from its trapeze
Into a net of cob webs
We scoop it with spoons
We are greedy for
An orgy of moon-glow
They shattered the vessels
These moon goblins
They ride witch-wild
And cross the speckled night
Moon mad and gibbering
They utter senseless divination,
They are our children,
Wizened by moon-glow
Drunk on vaporous night air
Our hands, swollen with use
Are useless in its glow
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