Harvest Moon

And the chickens are not screaming.
Finding you
hunched so little and so low
So funny now. You with
your pupil eyes gleaming
there is thickness in your hands.
Pressed to your throat.

The moon is still rising.
And I
grasping hard the cold and the thinness
You're inching from me. Smile
wide, I am only counting.

The trees are not watching.
Do not try and
understand. Their ways of leaning
to the sun and from the moon are now
none of your concern. For you jerk away
swinging your jowels, spilling yourself
on the ground.

And the chickens are all screaming.
I am only hushing. There is no
reason for this howl. You are still
still
still


I am leaning forward.
The chickens are all sleeping
quiet now.
I have hushed them to their dreams.
And I am raising up
the thinness and the coldness.
You are no longer crouching
but laying somewhere hidden.
Casting blank eyes to the moon
commanding the trees.
And the thickness
is still spilling
from your neck.