The moon above is yours and mine
Eyes like small white fish, changing course. An optical illusion. Every view is peripheral now. I cannot see or I see too much. I need to talk to you. Your arms feel an irrational color. Not arms, stalks. Not tongue, anemone. Not this, you. The half moon above and its tableau is mine alone. The seconds may be important and I run in them, I bear your weight in them. The scissors are too dull. The policeman asks, Why did I cut you down. The question abides in the present tense. Because I thought and still think maybe.
Bough Down, Karen Green