Poems

The Moon

Fixed in the sky.
Ashy & reddish coin
lifted from the furnace/oven, fixed.
From time to time a long linen
covers her face, darkens,
like me, when I lose you.

It hangs.
Cheese
newly formed it is, it hangs.
A thousand fibers of her light
scatter coolness over the earth,
like me, when I look at you.

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