Poetry

Perched on a tree high
wave,
a moon was talking long
to me.

A live-in partenership
was in vogue. We always
loved each other breasts apart.

The weather was changing.
A plane load of tears would
disappear without a trace.

From somewhere a benign
lump explodes, making night,
a brilliant dream of
sleeping sky.

The hare jumps on the moon,
to snatch away the ambulatory
age, browsing around the death.