Eat the Moon
Dreamed 2013/9/4 by Wayan
I'm at a party. Evening. Yard. A tea-stained pregnant moon ascends
blue gulf behind the oak. Not Luna--this moon's ringed! But no, the alien halo slow-dissipates to arcs: just contrails curiously curved and momently aligned; mere atmosphere. And those twin lights, eyes bright on the moon-rim, must be planes just passing; jets in the night. But heartbeats pass, the moon snails higher--and the lights cling firm.
At last I can't resist a lunar trip--side-slip into shamanosphere. Here
I lift the wary moon from willow branch. Pocket eyes, slip her skull in
Wait--who forced me? I chose, and I can un. Apologize to her deer soul,
der. In my pocket, opaline deer-eyes still hide. As I side-step and return
But here in human time, where jewel-eyed deer are still as absurd
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NOTES IN THE MORNING
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