perhaps the moon is an antique glass ornament,
hung from a worn metal bracket
and inside the bracket is a chip which
only the person who handles the bulb knows about
the moon is fragile i share, staring
the shorter length of kelsea's arms contrasted with my own,
inside the shadow of a late walk
my thoughts are long
and full of midnight
i was lost for a time, i continue, explaining my absence
until one day i warmed like milk and lost the soupy stare of death
my shadow reaches for her hand, brushes the air inside the black
some day i want to
emerge white, sparkle inside a poem
m
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