Whores

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.