I am honored that this poem appeared in the beautiful inaugural issue of One today. The poem is pretty recent, and is part of my third ms., which is “currently seeking a publisher.” It’s a stack of papers with no eyes. It can’t seek anything. “Currently deserving a publisher”? I’ll settle for “doing the rounds.”
The Novice Insomniac, to the Crescent Moon
No more four inside-out mouths, inconsolable.
They’ve stopped, so I start my coronation anthem
to the future, wedding song for moon and earth shadow,
slimmest sky claw, lid of tight sleeper, more regal
than dawn. The others splay their riffs over sunrise
with that smug pride of early risers, excited by a mere day.
My eyelash, egg-crack, heralds a month, must be coaxed in
with vigor, over pornographic peonies, over other proofs
that the known is never flat, but shaped like song
spreading in resonant dusk, as we, the musically insane,
scribble our songs over the yard. So future, come quick,
come quick. Bring warm branches, shifting swarms,
sturdy fledglings, soft landings, rain, soaring. I sing
until I sleep mid-note, no reason to pause ever, forever.