The blood moon craves attention. She bangs the glass, panel by panel parading past a naked canopy, oak and ash. She's desperate for praise, for veneration, for long moments of worship like the early days: a world lit only by fire. It's only as her golden lens floods tiny goblets in a south window, that I notice six little lanterns of moonlight, fire flush, ringing in sonorous treasure, a suspended chord, a perfect 4 th of salty satin harmony with sky. And I melt into moment – eyes, ears, skin, tongue, breast, belly, legs – adrift her Indian ragas - puddle of moonbeam. Heavy with silver lipped boats, moans of stone, With pub revelers, ranting, whistling - something about football; With drone strike bloodbaths, cacophonies of grief, gravediggers, muddy boots, dark caskets, someone’s grandfather, mother, sister. With knitting circles, with sex slaves, with cock fights, with string quartets. Tides of grackles, tides of jelly fish, tides of hajjis, seven se
Kinetic Poetry - Subject to change without warning.