smudges that float up and down
over the words, the words which,
when read, are the sparrows
singing, the sparrows, tucked in
the lethargic eucalypts. I spend
so many hours trying to crack
the secret code. What is it on
my desk that sounds like eggs
hard-boiling? What is the cat
after? Not the words or the
birds (this time) but something
utterly engaging like a drycleaning
stub or a piece of kitty litter. More
to the point, what am I after? A
more slaphappy morass? Perhaps.
An albeit familiar goal, a place
I’m good at getting.
So here we are.
A full moon passes
over Geneva and I’m caught
in the gunk of the moment.
Darker gunk than I’m used to,
though. Gunk that could use
a little bit of your moon
which, while often swollen
and always inviting, is
dim enough to avoid
any collusion.
