this moon does to me what spring does to me.
the serendipity of lost lovers,
aching inside a tubewell of noises.
numb eyes, pink lips.
a lover’s greet.
beneath the shadow of the piroutte moon,
something surreal occurs,
a mother runs, runs like a fever.
a wife declutters her soul.
a tongue becomes colorless.
and a circle of hiccups surrounds this moon,
a silk bathrobe, caressing against the collarbone.
it happens like dyslexia,
a galvanizing moment perhaps.
people swirl here as if they do not care.