Christi Moon
Butterfield
every day
at least one bomb stops t.i.c.k.i.n.g. nightly anchors airbrush insidious hush-hush steady ruination and rushing of a self-predicted epidemic inflicting statistics on a homeland battlefield our truth yields to its own hand heavy medaled magazines empty missions shouldered-shifting post-to-post traumatic token soldiers hoisted roped and broken their folded hope is hanging high now commanding the white-gloved Tapping of a Butterfield lullaby Musicman ~ A Villanelle
his linen song in half-light cast her
swallowed by the burn and sway in cashmere waves on alabaster unbound in time that’s turning faster midnight climbs upon the day his linen song in half-light cast her their shadows dance on lath and plaster straddled bare and mirrored grey two cashmere waves on alabaster a blinding flight that pulling past her strumming fingers circle play his linen song in half-light cast her collapsing images may capture scale the walls in rhythm they turn cashmere waves on alabaster as beauty’s spun in Black and rapture silhouettes beneath the fray his linen song in half-light cast her in cashmere waves on alabaster |
Knowing
one steady question
led us through a year of wonder led us here staring bare and unbroken sifting colour into light as Friday morning weaves beneath the folded fabric of Japanese blinds you reach up careful fingers tuck fallen hair behind my ear what would that be like? the sun explodes inside this room knowing Apparition
panoramic captives
dangle seraphic swivel in silver bands of tangled light unhinged bridges sink the shingles and grieving eaves of my crescent roof exquisite apparitions blinking Black incantations on kindred sides of one reality holograms drawn in beveled proof wings torn weightless between this night and morning’s revelry 
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Arrivals
(forward)
I want to write about a man beside a train. A year later and I am still looking for the words. The palm of that strong hand balm on the small of my lower back; always, pulling. I'm getting closer. I’ve only taken a few steps when my legs stop responding to the signals from my brain my vision locked on an image you’re running beside the train your green hat folded in your hand five hundred thousand minutes careen into this one my feet can’t feel the ground airy echoes of your name far away and thrumming she sounds like me in s l o w m o t i o n cinematography we are captured in these frames in front of the lens behind the lens we are the lens we are standing still and spinning as the clocks vanish beneath we are heaved beyond the gates of this brief ceiling |