The Man In the Moon

The Man In the Moon

an infinitely small integer struggled across the tundra
a lot to carry in a memory sledge
that weight slowing the measured gait
one foot ahead of the next ice flower
one foot wrapped and out of time
the integer did not feel the torn places
already folding away infection

night came, and did two integers sleep on the misting stars
there seemed to be a thigh, a breath caught, a cry
a hand across the deepest divide
where only half a bridge remained
which was now the dream -- the warm or the ever-gaining ice fear

morning again night again mourning again
an integer rearranged the sledge, what now is left behind?
hard to tell but one (1) keeps on walking
now the bowl of the sky has sifted
all the old maps are out-dated
integer remembers only topography inside
has only a map to the old place

the new land, swallowed before any lips touch it,
lies alone in some distant valley
and inching across the tundra greyling
now only the moon is born anew
strangely carved with your jawline and your eyes
the hills are not alive
without you





Naught Again Naught Enough

The Flying Dutchman