Yellow eyed spider moon

I see your cyclops presence above

the withering mountain treetops

and the desert spreads within my chest.

I have finished too many books,

met with too many enigmatic women.

I need the unknown like a blood

transfusion in these borrowed veins.

Will my tongue die, with my sinews

snap like so many chickens gone?

Not tonight.  Already the dawn drops

many figs in the grass.  Knives flash

next to oil stained cutting boards

in the light from churning fans.

Somebody must inhabit these lonely lanes,

somebody has to stay up late with the cat.

That dreamy bullet lost to all conjured guns

keeps flying without an impact.

It visits all the places I do not go

whips around the outlines of

what has been cut to last

in the twilight's cracks.