The blood moon needs attention.

She bangs the glass panel by panel
as she passes through the naked canopy

of oak and ash - she's desperate for praise,
for veneration, for the long moments of worship

like the early days: a world lit only by fire.

It's not until she pours those globs of gold
into the amber goblets in a south window,

that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight, 
flush with her fire, ringing like sonorous treasure,

like a suspended chord, a perfect 4th
in salty satin harmony with the sky.

I devour the scene with my eyes, my ears,
my skin, my tongue, my heart - a feast of Indian ragas.  

And just as my body shivers in its own light,
the showboat glides behind a cloud.

 "Shalom, Shalom," she sighs.


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