The channels run silver,
Moon baby.
New moon
I bloom
in the black,
ready to receive;
listening
to the whispers
of the stars,
now that
our glowing orb,
pale,
is in darkness
transfixed.
We kiss.
Enveloped in
softness
I turn
my hopeful face
to the vault
as I dance
on the threshold
of the twenty eight.
My dreams
run like trains;
planes hit by
waves;
caught in a
building
burning
and fashions
march by.
Saint Campbell,
Mother’s son,
what initiation
is this?
Of the body,
my body,
that rings
when we kiss?