Lunar Innuendos

From the May 2012 magazine

That bluish cataract milky with age,
the moon’s grey glimpse gauzed by night

Scuffed and ochreous as a child’s lost ball
discovered under last December’s ice,

With necrotic shadows wisping its forehead
—the sudden pleasure of death after long pain—

Invents its spires and beginning belfries.
The moon is not cold cinder swathed

In the stark fixative of thermal glass
nor even speechless stone freckled with gleams

Nor a chill foundation for persuasive air.
Don’t be misled by its shrewd blue gaze:

The small brown bat can clasp it in his mouth.

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