The moon smiles
like a witless hag
rises from
the gutters rim
and stirs tomorrow
into vowel shaped clouds.
She paces
the thin corners
of this naked room.
Threads spider bones
through gaping streets
mais la lune
ne garde acune rancune.
And somewhere
you grow beautiful
at her touch
and whisper
bittersweet lies
to the depths
of this shattered night.
