the moon before.

the thinner spectre of the two,

serene and pale and half in shadow,

from the creases of the curtain,

floats a plaintive lullaby

into the swollen greenwich evening.

her song for sleepless children.

‘a painted fort for poorly cowboys,

a teepee for the squaw and chieftain.

a mountain range of wooden blocks

to ride, with reins between their teeth

and hooves that echo in the canyon.’

but, in the ether strewn with crayoned

cut-out stars and pockmarked moon

(before the landing) –

a blinking eye was at the keyhole.

in anticipation, i suppose.