• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 11

Moon Struck

Our moon, one girl, top hand with ring -
those bones with skin scape, Scapa Flow -
but it’s the juxta, cause play, dis-play,
as if applique, tech applied,
to switch then pose; a question mark?
That pose, spatial relationship -
as soon as real, manipulate;
does tromp l’oeil explore some truth,
a whimsy, quirk, sum fancy take,
or ology more tablet fun -
even a symptom, pill dreams spun?

So hear me, metric, rhyme perchance,
wherever bends, deep breathing sense,
know chosen chime, run rings by type.
Orbit, thence maria sees,
still frozen knuckle, coat for chill,
but sandals, even warm flesh walk,
though soon to cycle, lunar time?
The hue of red - one takes its cue,
but only hand, blood circulate;
maybe Edam, that ball, sky high?

It could be harvest, hanging beams,
not Super Blue (nor glue if need),
but curse or, shortcut, shift and paste;
believing is not scene as seen,
but what now veiled seems reel as screened.