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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





Picture

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

Comments?

***

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