Spring Crescent

The moon is displaying its white cockroach mandible
Through the many pink blossoms
of the little trees at the edge of the parking lot
of the pharmacy

The luminous tide is losing itself

It is like an old man wafting a young woman
beside a dark pool

The catholic satellite
knows its bone beak is hopeless

Nothing else is known            but desire

The frothy scum atop it is green and bountiful

It is like Monet going blind

over our heads

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