When the moon turned red before me
I stood craned in my doorway
The stars disappeared to lit our dark stool
No longer turning upon their
Weaponess and noise began to slow down
Like the sound of an old filing book
Found braided with wax and drowsy
Grape jars of ink broke around me
The last thing that I remembered
Gazing from its core like a cinder
Broad enough for my eyes to
Donkeys on a cliff with the
One eye lit, too long gone farin'
I watched it wild and weary
On the underside of the ocean
Ostracal strings made of rain and spittle
Met the mist and the moss
in the middle of a wellington print
And a trail cut to cloven
In and out of a stone so woven
Fire fading, failing its chimney,
mouth open but no words will find me
The moonray painted by a crimson filter,
burnt the walls within my shelter
Gaz ing from its core like a cinder,
bright enough for my eyes to
To the north, the pockmarked quarries
In all their shivering glories
Boiling bell, born of an old church
And our shadows gaunt and garbled
Slow dancing upon the marble
Our brown bones, them that we buried
The crow judged while inquiring
Too dark yet to see the ashes
Until the moon lights crimson sashes
Cast out in searing flashes
From within the midnight's
And that's the salt, the searing ember
To this day I still remember
Gazing from its core like a cinder
