Moon Glow

There’s a pink Carnation hanging
on the lapel of the Abyss—
no, that’s not right—
it’s a full Moon, yes, it is,
and I recognize her, yes, I do!

She befriended me, when I was all dressed up
with no place to go but the black night.

A Child, she stepped down on my hand
while remaining in the starless sky,
and for once I did not tremble—
for once I did not die.

We were standing at the North Pole,
dressed as snow-dwellers:
She on the back of my glowing hand,
I with my feet on a glacier that dripped
relentlessly into Nothingness.

No-thing-ness! The Moon, the Abyss,
Carnation suspended from Night’s lapel,
Starlight buried in black effulgence,
un-trembling Hand, supernatural Child!

The Recipe calls for those ingredients,
and so much more. All things considered,
all things mutate, they blend without fixed identity,
becoming each other, then vanishing.

Moon Glow

Behold, it’s like sleight of hand—
now you see ‘em, now you don’t!

There’s a Ring on my finger.
She contemplates it lovingly
for it symbolizes fidelity
to the Moon, to the pink Carnation,
to the black night, to our flesh and bones—
to the Human that dwells
in all things, all creations.