rusting leaves—
I hear the static
of my absence
all at sea
the moon and I triangulate
the absent

a blue moon absorbed in singularity

full of grace
a crucible 
of moon flesh
raising alarm bells
about me

holding fast the blur of grief

take their toll
new moon —
stars speak to me
in braille
sea and sky 
edge around
seems of colour
long white cloud . . .
here coldness comes
from the south