Blood Moon

Restless trees turn on microphones
because it is autumn again.
The staghorn sumac mocks the deer.
The moon mocks everything,
the haunted mini-golf course
by the forgotten highway
where the deer stand,
the dead ice cream cubicle
with its ghosts of hands
that offered edible Platonic forms
across the counter,
the miniature iron clubs
left inside the ice cream stand
that dates to the sixties,
shaped like a cosmonaut’s pod
in a museum. Everything
is ancient and new tonight,
including you.  The deer stand
on the pretend grass,
before the fiberglass
mountain and other
miniatures our game made.
The moon turns its blood
eye like a dead carp
to the window where
a young girl stands
with so much pity
for the world, she tries
to drink the overage
of the viscous blood,
wrong moonlight
from its very eye.

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