Cleft Moon in Dusty Orange

Weird Poetry

Russet moon —


And sacred (scarred),

Burning as nights do in summer,

Glowing like a shard of ancient amber,

Set in tar.

It’s quarter to 5

In the morning,

Before the gloam and slow-rising of the sun,

And I feel you


From the halved moon,

Coloured in flame and rust,

Embedded in black sky.

My mind wanders for a bit,

Multi-directional and divergent

From a parched early morning wake-up,

But stills

When my eyes find

The dusty orange cleft moon —

Cleaved in half (like my soul)

By shadow (like my soul),

And hanging low

In the still-sleeping sky.




*** It looked like a fuzzy orange blob at first. Then I put my glasses on, and gasped. ***