As gravity softens skin’s tender folds,
all grows tentative. Questions 

come knocking, demanding solar eloquence. 

Stutter-speech answers the door.

Porch light’s dim. Who’s there? 

Who’s really there?

This stands sweating on splintered threshold, That 

in tow. Verity stumbles up creaking stairs

trailing moonlit shadow—

low, high, wide, lasered slow.

A crooked fingertip flattens rooftops.

Maiden moon rises west,
splays north or south,
tumbles into any bed she damn well pleases.

Foghorn brays through every heart,

sets it booming moonward.
Blood-rush, spurting vein.
Moon-witted. Moon wilted.