it sits there like a dinner plate, that moon
yellow and wide-eyed on the horizon. mute and
studying a girl who is nothing but a snaggletooth and a palm.
a beacon of fireflies is caught in her hand, her cupped fingers are the source of all light in the universe.
glutted on purple sunshine,
moth-powder settles on her, feeling like how butterscotch tastes. she is in throes of a non-emotion emotion, whose soft edges can only be chipped at, who is only a translation. everything is a translation, translation is not passive, translation is the act of living.
she is staring at a moon with a waning smile. she is bored, she is bottomlessly entertained, she is empty, she is full, time is running out, time is yawning and forever, it is, it is not, the moon continues to orbit.
the abstraction of language is solved only by the moon. (moon) (moon) (moon).
loses its gravity when perched on the tongue; don’t worry, it’ll find it again.
the girl does not know anything but the seam of her feet and the hot grass. and the moon, she knows it, the only changing thing in an endless riptide of summer days.
the girl floats out circles, drifting to a white catch net, seeing the whisper of a june daymoon, delicate as the spidersilk tugged to the sky.
moon. moon. moon.
empty in the solitude. it is the moon (moon) (moon) who fills her up, who reminds her of the sluggishness of the days as they whirl by in a humid dervish.
it is her, a yellow dinner plate, just something born from the hand of the girl,
who is nothing but a snaggletooth and a palm.